Here is where to find all of my works! Requests are open right now! (Will not write explicit smut oneshots)(requests also take a little while for me to write but I promise I’m working on them) Also if you have any questions/comments I love to chat!
Angst - 🥀 Fluff - 🌸 Hurt/Comfort - 🌀
Spicy - 🍓
Multiple Chapter Fics 🌙
Smosh's Very Own Disney Princess - Damien Haas x f!reader 🥀 🌸 🌀
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
could you write a spencer agnew x reader fic where they’ve worked together on games for years and have been dating a majority of that time, but no one has picked up on it till reader/spencer says something about the other that makes it obvious
The Perfect Pair
Spencer Agnew x f!reader
Spencer accidentally reveals the two of you are dating during his birthday livestream. Except, was it really a reveal if it was never a secret in the first place?
TW: Y/N usage, innuendos/dirty jokes, talking about boobs, typical gentlemen's behavior, Lizzy my beloved
Everyone knew that you and Spencer were attached at the hip. It had been like that since the day you were hired. People always joked that the two of you were the perfect pair because you were such opposites. You had a big whiteboard with filming schedules, potential games and sponsors, and the cast you wanted in the videos. Spencer had, well, the chaos that only comes with someone who had a million brilliant ideas and zero clue where to put them all.
But they had no clue how similar the two of you actually were. The shared ambition, the late nights, the humor, and slowly but surely, the feelings involved. He confessed one night over a few too many cups of coffee in the soft lighting of your shared office, looking at how beautiful you were as you furrowed your brow at a spreadsheet.
You couldn’t stop yourself from kissing him. And you didn’t plan on stopping. Eight months later, you hadn’t. You stole kisses in between meetings, held hands under the desk, and left notes on his computer screen.
And yet, none of your friends noticed. They had grown so used to seeing the two of you together that it just seemed normal. Even your fans brushed it off as usual occurrences when the two of you mentioned going out for dinner or having a sleepover. So really, you weren’t keeping a secret at all. But everything comes to light one way or another, and yours just happened to be live and on camera. Whoops.
It was Gentlemen’s Werewolf Live for Spencer’s birthday. You were technically supposed to be directing when you got a call from George Primavera.
“Hey, I’m really sorry, but I can’t DM today, my baby’s sick and my wife is away on a work trip so I need to stay home.”
“No, no, you’re good George, please take care of him and yourself.”
The phone call was quick but devastating. Now you have no DM. Awesome.
Lizzy overheard the whole thing, and probably could’ve gathered what happened anyway based on the look on your face.
“Why don’t you do it?”
“I’m the director, that’s not how it works.”
“Think of Spencer’s face.” She nudged you. “Besides, didn’t wardrobe finish your Gentlemen’s costume for Bit City a few weeks ago?”
“I mean, yeah, but then who will direct?”
She grabbed your meticulous notes out of your hand. “I’ve got it, don’t worry.”
“Liz-”
“I don’t want to hear it. It’s your boy toy's birthday, and we’re going to make you stunning.”
The two of you walked to wardrobe, keeping your voices quiet so you wouldn’t spoil the surprise. “You know I hate when you call him that.”
She helped you slip on the ivory cotton dress and lace up the deep blue corset that went on top. The cinching made your boobs push up to a nearly obscene degree, the thin hem of the collar doing nothing to hide it. She pinned your hair half up with a hairpin and stood back, proud of her work.
“He’s going to freak. His eyes are gonna pop out of his head like a cartoon.”
You laced up your boots. “I’d prefer his eyes to stay intact, thank you very much.”
“Between the surprise and your tits, something else is going to be popping out too.”
It took you a second to get what she meant. She smirked as you put your face in your hands. “Let’s just go please, we’re gonna be late.”
“Oh, I texted Shayne to start without us so we could make a grand entrance.”
“Of course you did.”
Lizzy had the live playing as the two of you loitered outside the big double doors to the games stage so you knew when to enter. After working out some typical livestream kinks, Shayne started the intro.
“‘Ello mate. I do hope you all are ready for a nice, competitive game of Werewolf.” The group nodded, murmuring to each other with fake cigars in their mouths. “It is our dear Sir Spencer’s birthday.”
“Yes, yes, I do hope you’ll share your wives with me after as your primary gift.”
Court gasped. “Dear sir, I thought our company would be more than enough to please you.”
“No no, I need some other pleasing as well.” His eyes sparkled mischievously. “That’s what a man’s day of birth is for, suckling at the teat of life!”
Shayne continued with a relaxed arm around Spencer’s shoulder. “And now, we have a special guest. I know that we promised you Sir George, but he is off teaching his child how to work in the mines today. So today, instead, our DM will be the fair Lady Y/N!”
You flung open the doors dramatically, the cameras panning to you striding in confidently. “Hello boys.” You shot a wink at Spencer, whose mouth was hanging agape.
The whole stage burst into chaos. There was screaming, cheering, and someone popped one of the streamer cannons you had bought early. But through it all, all Spencer could do was stare at you as you calmly walked behind the couch.
“Holy crap.”
Shayne noticed first, nudging him with a sly smile on his face. “I see you’ve found another mistress.”
“That’s my wife.” Spencer blurted out, sending both you and Shayne into a state of shock.
Angela overheard and started shaking Arasha’s shoulder. “Spencer just called Y/N his wife!!!!”
Arasha freaked out. “Oh my god! Another secret marriage? This is crazy, why wasn’t I invited???”
The low buzz from the excitement earlier grew louder once more, people bouncing on the couch and shaking each other, bombarding both you and Spencer with questions. You wanted to sink into oblivion from all the attention and Spencer could tell, putting a comforting hand on top of where yours rested on the couch. Then he cleared his throat loudly, forcing everyone to stop in their tracks.
In his normal voice, he said, “So, as you've all gathered by now, Y/N and I are dating. No, there isn’t a secret marriage. Yes, she’s so beautiful she nearly knocked me off my feet just now. And yes, this is the best birthday gift I’ve ever received.” You smiled down at him and he kissed your hand gently, prompting coos from the onlooking crowd. “We never kept it from you guys on purpose, it just happened so naturally that people didn't ask. Loving her is the most natural thing I’ve ever done. There's only so many sleepovers you can have before you're living together everyone, it was not subtle at all.” He shook his head in mock disappointment.
He was about to continue his spiel when someone from the crew, probably Lizzy, started chanting ‘kiss, kiss, kiss’ in the back, and everyone else soon followed. Spencer quickly clambered over the bodies of everyone on the couch before reaching you, a goofy grin plastered on his face.
He offered his hand to you with a flourish. “My Lady, will you do me the honor?”
You giggled. “How could I deny the charming Sir Spencer on his birthday?”
He spun you around before dipping you, hat falling off his head. You picked it up and put it back on lopsided before he kissed you. The kiss was like all of the ones you’d had before, warm and heart melting, but now with the background noise of all of your friends cheering for you.
Maybe you really were the perfect pair.
A/N: Tbh on the fence about this one still but I do love a good gushy reveal moment and someone told me to write more cliche rom com stuff so here we are.
You have a napping problem. Spencer has a you problem. Featuring the classic one bed trope, nosy friends, and a 2000’s rom com.
TW: Nightmares, there was only one bed!, scheming friends (per usual), friends to lovers, potential 27 Dresses slander (it's for driving the plot it hurt me too)
I trace it all back, 3:30 AM
That night, something turned in my heart
While you were sleeping, I fell in love
While you were sleeping - Laufey
It was no secret that you could fall asleep anytime, anywhere. Spencer had seen you asleep face down on your desk, on the couches in the office, tucked in some quiet corner, or even during a night out at the bar. He had always thought you were pretty then, mixed with a flicker of jealousy that he couldn’t find rest so easily, even at home in his bed. But nothing compared to right now.
Right now, you were stunning. Well, you were always stunning. You had fallen asleep on his shoulder on the car ride to the hotel, craving the warmth and scent of someone familiar. Even Angela had gone silent from the exhaustion, but Spencer was wide awake, heart swelling as you nuzzled into his shoulder. Courtney gave him a look over their shoulder, but he couldn’t care less. He would take what he could get for now, even if it was the most fleeting moment with his crush while she was asleep.
As the Uber driver pulled up to the hotel, you woke, stretching your arms above your head and cracking your neck. You nearly punched Spencer in the face in the process.
“Damn, for someone who used me as a pillow you could be nicer.”
You realized what you’d done, putting your hands over your mouth to try and stifle your giggles. “Sorry Spence, I didn’t mean to try to hurt your precious face. How else would you make money?”
“I’ll have you know that people would go crazy for my feet if I got desperate enough.”
Your face wrinkled as you thought about how he was probably right. “Ew. Never say that again.” You shimmied out of the backseat, taking your bag from the trunk and going to the front desk where Shayne and Court were getting room keys.
“Okay, we have three rooms since Ian is staying with his friend. That’s about two of us per room I think.”
“I call not Spencer!” Angela yelled. “I love you Spence but no way. I need my girl time.” She linked arms with Alexcina and Emily, who were standing on either side of her.
You thought for a minute. “Well, I don’t know if the four of us could fit in one room, and personally I don’t want to watch Shayne and Court make out.”
A devilish look flashed in Courtney’s eye. “So why don’t you room with Spencer? That way Angela can have girl time and the two of you can have nerd time or whatever.”
You froze, heart racing. Court knew exactly what she was doing. Tentatively, you said, “I guess. It’s probably fine, right?”
Spencer just shrugged. “Doesn’t matter to me as long as you don’t snore.”
You glared at him. “Fine. Give me the keys, this dork will lose them.” You snatched the keys out of Courtney’s hand as she winked at you, and you took off, muttering to yourself about stupid people and stupid Courtney and stupid London.
Spencer turned to the group, sighing. “You just had to go and provoke the beast, didn’t you?”
Shayne gave him a gentle push on the shoulder. “You can handle it buddy, go get her.”
Spencer rolled his eyes, following the gray storm cloud that surrounded his crush. He nearly crashed into you as you abruptly stopped in the doorway. He peered over her shoulder to see why and froze too.
Of course. One bed. Mischievous bitches.
“Nope. Mm mm. Not gonna happen.” You shook your head. “There has to have been some sort of mistake.”
Spencer looked at the receipt for the reservations. “Nope, no mistake, we booked three queen rooms.”
“Ugh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” You threw your stuff next to the couch then flopped down on it. “I barely slept at all on that flight, I’m exhausted.”
“You? You barely slept? Did you suddenly develop a whole new personality trait in the time it took to get from LA to London?”
“It’s not funny Spencer.” You muttered angrily into the couch. “The only sleep I got was on the drive from the airport to here.” A frustrated tear slipped out of your eye and he longed to wipe it away.
“Then take the bed.”
“No, your old man back needs it more than me.”
“I’m only like two years older than you.”
“It’s the principle of the thing.”
“Look, I get that you want your space, but I think you should sleep in the bed, you’re already grumpy enough. We’ll put up a pillow wall or something if you don’t want me to sleep on the couch.”
You pulled yourself out of your slump, hair falling in front of your face, then took two steps over to the bed and fell face first on it. Spencer thought he heard you mumble something along the lines of thank you before he watched you fall asleep, feet hanging haphazardly off the bed. He took his time getting ready for bed, being as quiet as he could. He was reluctantly setting up a pillow between the two of you when he heard you whimper. Concerned, he sat up and watched as your fists clenched the blanket.
“Please, no, get away, no!” You cried out in your sleep, starting to thrash.
Spencer shook your shoulder roughly. “Hey, it’s okay, it’s time to wake up now.”
You awoke with a start, body shaking. You rubbed your eyes furiously, trying to clear them of the sleep sand and tears. “Sorry, I need a minute.” Rushing to the bathroom, you splashed cold water on your face. You looked like a hot mess. Spencer had been kind enough to unpack your toiletries and put a pair of your pajamas in there, knowing you would inevitably wake up and realize you were uncomfortable. Of course he did. That thoughtful motherfucker.
Spencer was sitting up on the bed when you finally came out, phone glowing in the darkness of the bedroom. You sat next to him, pulling the covers up onto your lap and avoiding his gaze.
“Talk to me.” He left no room for argument.
“I have chronic nightmares. Sometimes I take sleeping pills for them, but they usually make me sleep through alarms and things. So I didn’t bring them. I figured I couldn’t miss any of this. I figured I’d be sharing a room with Emily since she knows, but…”
“You ended up with me.”
“Exactly.”
“And that’s why you nap all the time?”
“Pretty much. Sleeping for more than two hours makes my brain overactive or something.”
“And that’s why you didn’t sleep on the plane either?”
“Right on the money.” You looked at him, making out his concerned look in the dark. “Sorry for all of this.”
“You don’t need to apologize, I totally get it.” He slid down the headboard, wrapping himself in the blanket. “So what do we do to get you to sleep?”
You thought back to all of the home remedies and medications you had tried. Only one had ever really worked. But you couldn’t do that to him. Could you? But friends cuddled all the time. This could be a normal, totally platonic and not at all fantasy fueling cuddle sesh.
“Okay, you can say no, I just want to preface that.”
“Okay?”
“But the only thing that’s ever worked is, uh, cuddling.” Your face burned with embarrassment. “Andit’stotallyfineifyoudon’twanttobecausethatwouldbecrazyright.”
Little did you know, his face was flushing too, for completely different reasons. He took a deep breath, steeling himself. “Sure, if it’ll get you to sleep.”
You sunk into the pillows. “Really?”
“Yep. C’mere you.” He opened his arms, making room for you to lay against his chest. You scooched closer, tentatively wrapping your arms around him. He rested his chin on the top of your head, squeezing you in a hug as you settled in.
“Thanks Spence.”
“Of course.”
—-----
“And then we cuddled.” Angela squealed, grabbing Alexcina’s arm.
“And how did you sleep?”
“It was the best I’ve slept in a long time. Like a long long time.” Angela started bouncing up and down, fork flying out of her salad and onto the floor. As she picked it up, you slid yours into her salad. You didn’t need one to eat your sandwich anyway.
Alexcina grinned at you from across the table. “So are you gonna do it again tonight?”
You sighed dreamily, glancing at where Spencer, Ian and Sean were drinking tea at a table near you. “Is it selfish to say that I hope so?”
“I don’t think so.” She took a sip of her tea. “It’s been a long time coming.”
“He’s just being nice.”
Angela rolled her eyes. “You think that man cuddles just to be nice?”
“Absolutely yes. He’s so touchy with everyone.”
Her eyes flicked over to the boys, looking at how Spencer was leaning on Sean. “Not like how he is with you.”
As if on cue, Spencer caught your eye and came walking over to your table, slumping over on top of you. “You’ll never believe this. They forgot to give me a tea bag. I was drinking plain hot water the whole time.”
You burst into laughter, shaking the two of you violently. He grinned ear-to-ear, getting exactly the reaction he’d hoped for. “You didn’t think anything when it was clear?”
“I don’t know, it could’ve been special.”
You shook your head lightly, leaning back into him. “Only you Spence, only you.” He looked down at you, eyes flitting over your lips briefly before he stood back up.
“Well, back to being the court jester, see you later!” He practically bounded back to the boys, laughing as he went.
Alexcina and Angela were staring at you. “What?”
“Just nice my ass.” Angela muttered, downing the rest of her tea. “I need liquor after watching that.”
“Liquor? I hardly know her.”
She groaned and walked away, leaving you and Alexcina snickering in the background.
—------
The day had absolutely wiped you out. You loved your job, you really did, but sometimes you felt like you weren’t cut out for the amount of social interaction it required. You were booed when you said no to going out, but you told them you’d rather be in bed with a glass of wine and a cheesy movie than spend another minute talking to someone you didn’t know.
Reluctantly, they let you go back to the hotel, and you were very contentedly sipping a glass of cheap white wine and finishing the movie 27 Dresses when you heard the door handle click open.
Spencer kicked off his shoes and laid down next to you, looking flushed and exhausted.
“I split the G once, and I feel like I’ve been hit by a bus.”
“That’s exactly why you don’t drink anymore, stupid.”
“I know, I know, but like when in Rome y’know.” You nodded as you watched Jane walk down the aisle for the millionth time. “You really like this movie.”
You shrugged. “It’s cute.”
“Not to dog your taste, but it’s a little predictable.”
“I fear that’s the point.” He raised an eyebrow in a silent question, which prompted you to continue. “Girl meets guy, they slowly fall in love, there’s a big fight then they get back together. It’s simple and easy. No complications. Not like real life.”
“What’s wrong with real life?”
You were quiet for a minute before you settled on the words you wanted to say. “Feelings in real life are messy.”
“But isn’t that what makes it beautiful?” He was leaning on his elbow now, intently focused on what you had to say.
“I mean, you aren’t wrong, but to me it’s just confusing.”
“Tell me about it.”
You sighed and set your glass down, the alcohol fueling your openness. “So there’s this guy.” Spencer frowned for a second, but quickly replaced it with a thoughtful expression. “And I really like him, and my friends say he likes me too, but like- sometimes I just think, why would he? I’m just me. And he’s a really good friend of mine, so what if I mess up and lose him?”
“I think anyone who’d turn you down would be stupid. And he would like you for you dipshit, that’s kinda how that works.”
You leaned back against the headboard, glaring at him. “You’re just saying that to be nice.”
“Do I look nice to you? I thought I was menacing.” He stuck his tongue out at you.
You snorted. “As menacing and cute as a teddy bear.”
“Cute? That’s a new one.”
Pink crept up your neck and you turned your head away from him. “Shut up.”
He tugged on your hand that was resting in your lap. “Hey, seriously, I think you should tell that guy you like him. It might go better than you think.”
“Go put your pajamas on and stop being wise.”
He pushed himself off the bed with a Herculean effort, rolling on top of you in the process. “Cuddle time again tonight?”
Before he could disappear into the bathroom, you nodded. “Yes please.” The door gently shut behind him and his words rang in your head. ‘It might go better than you think.’ That bastard, he knew already, didn’t he.
Stupid Spencer.
—---------
Late that night, tucked into the crook of his neck, you still couldn’t fall asleep. You were too anxious, mind occupied by how easily it had been for him to read you. Had he known all this time? Did someone tell him? Was it Angela? It was definitely Angela.
After shifting to try and get more comfortable for the nth time that night, Spencer stirred from his slumber. “Your thoughts are loud.”
“Did Angela tell you?”
“Did Angela tell me what?” He murmured sleepily.
“That I like you.”
“No, I figured it out on my own. But I wanted you to tell me yourself.” You huffed at him, annoyed, and turned away from him. “Baby, come back.”
The name slipped from his mouth like it always belonged there and wormed its way into your chest. “Oh. Spence, you can’t say that.”
“Why not? Do you not like it? If you don’t like it I’ll stop.” He was fully awake now, eyes wide.
You turned back to face him, heart thumping wildly. “I think you just rewrote my whole life. In a good way.”
His head fell onto your shoulder. “Thank god. I was worried I was wrong.”
“You could never be wrong, not about this.”
“Does that mean I get a goodnight kiss now with my cuddles?”
“Take me on a date first and then we’ll see.” You snuggled back into his arms, the adrenaline fading into a calming warmth. The steady beat of his heart sung you to sleep, and as your eyes closed, you felt him place a small kiss on your forehead.
“Sweet dreams.”
A/N: A third fic in three days????? Who is she, I don't know her. (My drafts are full of half finished fics and I have about a month until school starts again so they need to get done lol)
heyyy!! recently i had to have a small surgery that has been kicking my butt lol. i was wondering if you could write fluff/comfort with spencer where he takes care of reader who had just gone through a minor surgery and reader is like kinda embarrassed that they have to someone else take care of them. thank you so much, love ya!!
A/N: I hope you're well and fully healed by now Anon! Sorry this took so long! Crossing my fingers that it was worth the wait.
White Knight
Spencer Agnew x reader
Hurt/Comfort
Spencer chases away all your doubts when you're stuck with a broken ankle and your difficult thoughts.
TW: Hyperindependent girlie forced to rest (projecting a little tbh), bickering as a love language, reader should probably go to therapy, self deprecating and depressing thoughts, resisting care, downplaying problems, deep conversations
You hated being bedridden with a passion. You were very independent and self-sufficient, thank you very much. No need for care, you were just fine. But your boyfriend Spencer clearly did not feel the same, standing in front of you with his arms crossed stubbornly to keep you on the couch and blocking your escape attempts.
“You just got pins put in your ankle. There is no way you’re doing anything. Not on my watch.”
“I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
“Lay down and put your foot up.” You frowned, but visibly winced as he shifted your foot on top of the pillow. He put a bag of frozen peas on it for good measure, then covered you with a blanket. “Now is not the time to be stubborn. Now is the time to rest.”
“What if I don’t want to rest?” You challenged him with a glare.
“Where are you gonna go? You’re pretty out of commission for the next week.”
“I have crutches.” You protested, “I could cook dinner or do the dishes or something.”
“No way, not happening. The last thing we need is for you to slip and fall and catch yourself on the hot stove. And the doctor said to rest.”
“Ugh.” You turned your head away from him. “Boo.”
He passed you the TV remote and fluffed a pillow before sliding it under your back. You lifted yourself reluctantly to make it easier for him, but you couldn’t deny that it made your back feel a lot better. Spencer sat on the edge of the couch next to you, tucking you in as much as he could.
You flushed with embarrassment. “You know, you don’t have to do all this. I’ll be just fine on my own.”
He brushed your cheek with his thumb and you leaned into his touch before you could stop yourself. “I want to do this. You deserve it.”
“Sap.”
“Plus I have to keep you from making a run for it somehow. Knowing you, you’d probably break the other ankle.”
“I still won.”
“You broke your ankle during the three-legged race and Trevor had to carry you across the finish line. Technically he won for both of you.”
“Tomato tomato.” You grinned as you watched his brow furrow in frustration.
“You are so lucky you’re cute. Otherwise you might actually be the death of me.”
“I wouldn’t count it out yet.” He smoothed out the blanket, accidentally brushing your ankle. Tears welled in your eyes involuntarily. You wiped them away before he could see, not wanting to make him feel bad. “Could I have some water please?”
“Of course.”
As he walked away, you readjusted, trying to regain some of your composure, but you knocked the ice off in the process. It only made the throbbing in your ankle intensify, and you took a shaky breath to stop the sob building in your chest.
When he came back, he noticed immediately. Of course he did, you had been dating for two years after all. He noticed the way you bit your lip, how your breath was uneven and your eyes were shiny. All signs that you wanted to cry but wouldn’t let yourself.
He set the water down on the table next to you before gently perching himself back where he was before. “Hey, it’s okay to cry, you know. You’re in a lot of pain.”
“It’s just my stupid ankle, it’s nothing.” Your voice came out tight and snippy, a shell of your usual self.
He brushed a rogue piece of hair behind your ear. “It’s not nothing.”
Your lip trembled weakly at his comforting gaze. “I know.”
“You broke your ankle darling. Please let me take care of you.”
The pet name was said so sweetly that it broke down whatever defenses you had left, sending you careening into his arms. You burrowed yourself into the warmth of his hoodie and his arms and let yourself break down.
After a few minutes, you mumbled into his shoulder. “I just feel useless.”
“You aren’t useless, you literally can’t walk.”
“But this happens every time!” Your hand clenched the fabric of his sleeve tightly, your knuckles turning white. “Every single time!”
He pried your fingers away from the cotton, intertwining them with his. “Whoa, hey. What happens every time?”
“You taking care of me! And me being dumb, and stupid, and a fucking burden.”
He squeezed you as tight as he could without disturbing your ankle. “We aren’t doing that. We aren’t being mean to my girlfriend over something she can’t control. And you absolutely are not a burden. It is a privilege and an honor to take care of you.”
“But I feel like you’re always taking care of me. It’s selfish.”
“Selfish for who?”
“For me!”
“Okay, hear me out. I’m going to throw some scenarios out, and you tell me if I was selfish or not.”
You frowned, wondering where he was going with this. “Fine.”
“Okay, so remember when I was sick a few weeks ago with the flu?”
“Yeah.”
“You brought me soup and stayed up with me in the night when I was feverish. Selfish or not selfish?”
“Not. You literally couldn’t feed yourself.”
He nodded and hummed. “And what about when I forgot my lunch last week and you brought it to me at work?”
“Not selfish at all! You need to eat in order to fuel that big brain of yours and I had the day off.”
“How about how you always make dinner because I constantly work late?”
“Well, that’s different, you just can’t cook.”
He rolled his eyes. “Humor me please.”
“Not selfish. I like cooking for you.”
“What if I, hypothetically, had a broken ankle from a three-legged race at Amanda’s kid’s birthday party and needed help doing everyday chores?”
You rolled your eyes. “Real subtle.”
“I never said I was good with analogies, just that I was trying to make one. Is it selfish or not?”
Sighing, you conceded. “Not… I’d want you to rest.”
“So what makes this,” he gestured to the cast on your foot, “Different from the other situations?”
“Nothing…….”
“Exactly. Nothing.”
Tilting your head back, you let your lips brush the stubble on his chin in a small kiss. “I hate when you’re rational.”
“Well, I hate when you’re sad more.” He nuzzled your cheek, which made you let out a small giggle. “There’s that smile I love.”
“You always know how to make me feel better.”
He broke out in a cheesy grin. “It’s my favorite thing to see you happy.”
You leaned into him again, settling yourself comfortably between his legs. “You’re up there for me, probably behind strawberries though.”
“Strawberries are good too.”
You hugged him tightly. “Thank you, by the way.”
“For what?”
“Everything. But especially for chasing my bad thoughts away.”
You felt him kiss the top of your head gently. “I’ll fight them every day if I have to, you deserve it.”
A/N 2: Had this request half written and @bludy-ivy's Spencer fic 'Sweet Creature' inspired me to finish it! Give their fic some love too!
Fluff, typical feelings slight angst, getting together
Angela’s poorly made excuse for skipping lunch forces you to take matters into your own hands.
TW: Not eating (not due to eating disorder but just from general busy-ness), secret admirer but it's actually secret chef, reader doesn't know how to handle feelings
You’d noticed lately that Angela had been skipping lunch. She would have an apple or a granola bar or not much else unless it was Friday catering. When you asked her about it, she said she just “didn’t have a lunchbox” and she was “too busy to go out and get one” and “the apple was just fine, it only had one brown spot on it”. Your maternal instincts kicked in immediately. This would not fly, not on your watch.
Obviously the reasonable thing to do would be to buy her a lunchbox and that would be that, but having known her for three years, you knew that she would forget to bring it after the first week. So you updated your meal prep list and got to work.
The meals were nothing fancy, ranging from ham sandwiches to salads to leftovers from your dinner the night before. But looking at the containers and the brown paper bags that littered your kitchen island made your heart feel extra full regardless. You sat and wrote “Angela” on five of the brown paper bags and smiled giddily. You really hoped she liked it. You knew she liked your cooking and devoured anything you offered her, but it was a whole other ballpark to be making things just for her.
You loved making things just for her. You loved her smile and her laugh and the way she sang copyrighted songs too loudly for the editors to smoothly cut out during videos.
You loved her.
You’d loved her for years.
And everyone knew but her.
You frowned at the smiley face sticker you had just added to the outside of the bag for added joy. Was this too obvious? Would she find out? Did you want her to find out?
Your heart screamed yes. Your brain told it to shut the fuck up. Your hand found a pen and started to write a note to put in her lunch like an elementary schooler’s mom.
You wrote “Have a great day!” Simple. Easy. Nondescript. No one would know it was you. You packed it up and stuck it in the fridge. Tomorrow, you would make sure she ate.
—------
Chanse opened the communal fridge at lunchtime and his jaw dropped. “Bitch you remembered to bring lunch today? Good for you! You’re improving!”
“What? No. I just have this.” Angela pulled a smushed granola bar out of her pocket. “I barely remembered to bring it.”
Chanse pulled the bag out of the fridge and shoved it in her face. “Then what’s this?”
Angela studied it with a furrowed brow before opening it. An orange, a chicken caesar salad and a chocolate chip cookie stared back. They all looked normal. “Do you think someone is planning on poisoning me?”
“We have too many cameras for them to do that here, literally they’re making Tiktoks with us in the background as we speak.”
“And you’re sure you had nothing to do with this? It’s not a prank?”
“I never said that.” He took the granola bar out of Angela’s hand and bit into it, grimacing. “Wow, this is bad.”
“So do you think it’s a prank?”
“Beats me. If it is, I’ll laugh but unfortunately, I won’t be able to take credit for this one.”
Angela skeptically took the lunch to one of the tables and started to eat it. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was until she started to eat. Maybe that’s why she’d been having headaches lately.
“How is it?”
She took a moment to swallow before answering. “It’s really good actually. Whoever did this even put the dressing on the side so the croutons wouldn’t get soggy. And look! They wrote me a little note. That’s so cute!”
Chanse studied the yellow Post-It note. The handwriting was familiar, but he couldn’t place where he’d seen it before. The way they crossed their T was distinct, and only a few people he knew curled their Y like that. The G in Angela had the same curl. Where had he seen it before?
Meanwhile, you were watching the two of them out of your peripheral while at your desk. Did she like it? Would she be in a better mood later? Oh no, what if she was allergic to something? You’d have to ask Amanda later just in case, she would know.
Tommy appeared, snapping you out of your thoughts. “Staring at your girl again?”
You spluttered, protesting. “She’s not my girl- shut up please before someone hears you.”
“Everyone knows, you’re the exact opposite of subtle. Which is why I know that that mysterious lunch she’s eating was absolutely made by you.”
“You can’t tell her.”
“Dude, it’s just lunch, what’s there to worry about? She’d probably be thrilled to know it’s from you.”
“Would she?”
“You’ve been friends for a long time, of course she would.”
“But what if she thinks I’m weird?”
“And a mysterious lunch isn’t weird?” He raised an eyebrow.
“She’ll ask why I’m doing it, and that means I have to tell her how much I care about her, and I don’t know if I can do that without bursting into tears or kissing her.”
“She’d probably prefer the latter.”
“No she wouldn’t! I’ve told you a million times she doesn’t see me that way.”
“You’re delusional.”
“No you.” You pouted, crossing your arms defensively over your chest.
Tommy gave you the look. The one that told you he thought you were being stupid but knew he couldn’t do anything about it. “So what, you’re just going to keep secretly making her lunch until the day you die?”
“Yes.”
He let out a dramatic sigh, flopping against the side of your desk and nearly knocking over your coffee. “Hopeless, hopeless queer-identifying ladies, whatever will we do with the two of you.”
“You could start by not getting your jacket in my drink.” He pulled his arm away, and sure enough, there was a wet spot on it.
“A necessary casualty.” You caught Angela’s eye over his shoulder and she waved energetically at you, a bright smile lighting up her face. You waved back, but not before turning the color of an overripe tomato. You zoned out, thinking about her dimples, only to be shaken back to reality by Tommy jingling his keys in front of your face. “As I said, totally hopeless.”
—------
As much as you hated to admit it, Tommy was right. You weren’t subtle in the slightest, which meant it was only a matter of time before you got caught.
And Chanse was the one who caught you, which meant this was about to be a whole mess. He caught you literally red handed, placing a Coke next to the brown paper bag that had become your signature over the past few weeks.
“I knew it. I knew it!”
“Be quiet! She’ll hear you!”
“Oh she needs to hear this. She’ll absolutely adore this.”
“How much money do you want? $10? $20?”
“You’re willing to pay me off?” Chanse circled you like a shark. “Not gonna happen, this is priceless.”
“Chanse. This isn’t funny.”
“What’s not funny?” Both of your eyes snapped to Angela, holding a tray of coffees for the three of you. “If it’s me I’d like to have some caffeine first please.”
“She’s been mak-” You lunged forward, trying to cover Chanse’s mouth. You grappled with him for a moment before he slipped out of your grasp, leaving you panting against the kitchen island. “She’s the lunch culprit! I figured it out!” He announced loudly.
“Goddamnit Chanse.” You muttered as you watched her jaw go slack. You couldn’t read her face as she pulled the bag back out of the fridge, eyebrows furrowed.
“It’s been you this whole time?”
You looked down at the dirty toes of your sneakers, ears burning and stomach in knots. “Yeah, it has.”
“Why?” When you peeked up at her, she looked genuinely confused, like she couldn’t imagine someone would ever want to do this for her.
“Because I noticed you not eating, and how it makes you grumpy at the end of long shoot days and how it makes you quieter during the days we aren’t shooting and how you always seem happier after having a full meal. And your light is so beautiful and bright and I feel sad seeing you sad.”
“Oh.”
Your fidgeting hands stilled. That wasn’t the reaction you’d been hoping for. You knew she wouldn’t return your feelings but you had at least thought that maybe she’d laugh it off or something. Something lighter.
“Yeah.” You hesitated, waiting for her to say something, but she didn’t. “I’ve gotta get to work but I hope you like it.” You walked away before she could respond, feeling worse than you had before you had decided to put your heart and soul into food weeks ago.
The next day, you found a lunch box with a small embroidered A on it in the fridge. You went home from the office sick and left the crumpled paper bag with your confession inside in the trash.
—--------
People called Angela oblivious, but she noticed more than people gave her credit for. Well, at least about you. She hadn’t known what to do with the lunch now that she knew you made it. You worked the longest nights out of anyone without taking any credit, and she felt so guilty for making you make something for her every single day on top of it. I mean, they were delicious, but not if it came at your expense.
She went to Target and bought a lunchbox the very same day, resolving to pack her own so that way you could get a break. It was better that way, she thought, easier for the both of you.
At least, that’s what she’d thought before she was poking at the saddest lettuce she’d ever seen in her life, dreading eating it.
“I knew this would happen.” Chanse stood over her, hands behind his back.
“I don’t know how she does it, this is just-”
“Pitiful.” Chanse cut her off. “Absolutely. And that is why I rescued this for you.” He pulled the brown paper bag out from behind him and set it on the table. “She looked pretty distraught when she saw you brought your own and tossed this, but I knew yours would be sad. No offense.”
Angela frowned. “She was upset? I thought she’d be happy for me to take something off her plate.”
Chanse put his face in his hands. “Just eat your lunch, I have to go shoot a Games video.” It came out muffled and weary, the kind of weary that came from two people refusing to see the obvious for so long it hurt.
Angela didn’t even notice him leave, focused on the strawberries you’d left for her. They were cut into hearts. She felt warmth swell in her chest. So cute. When she reached into the bag next, instead of pulling out food, she pulled out a small piece of paper, folded into a careful square. She was glad you’d left a note again, she thought they were adorable. Every single one had been carefully stowed away in her desk drawer.
She unfolded the paper, prepared to see a simple message, one that would brighten her day no matter how small. But instead, she came face to face with what could only be described as a full on letter.
She pushed the strawberries to the side and began to read.
“Dear Ange,
I really don’t know how to say this. So I guess I’ll start at the beginning. In the beginning, there was nothing, and then there was something. Probably metal or something. I’m no scientist, and I’m not good with my feelings either, so it sure is a good thing I decided to become an editor. When they hired me here, I was scared. So scared. I mean are you kidding me this is Smosh, like actual Smosh. Like 2004 Ian and Anthony from Smosh. And they hired me. Wild. Anyway, the point is that I nearly crumbled from the pressure and the workload and everything. And even when I was a newbie and a mess, you were kind and funny and put me at ease. You were a good friend. And I know that’s what we are now, good friends.
Chanse and Tommy told me to write this. They ganged up on me and told me it couldn’t go wrong. I’m pretty doubtful of that, but they held me at metaphorical gay gunpoint and said “write down your feelings or we’ll ruin your life” and “we’ll support you you weirdo”. But that’s beside the point. I’m just rambling now because I’m scared.
I’m scared to ruin us, because I love you. I made you lunches because I love you and it killed me inside to watch you be miserable. I’m writing this because I love you so much. I love you more than the sun loves the moon and the same amount that Shayne and Court love each other because they’re the blueprint and I can’t imagine two people loving each other more.
Even if you don’t feel the same, I still thought you should know. Hopefully the lunches were good at the very least. I tried to learn how to make your favorites.”
It was signed with a heart and a smudge that looked suspiciously like a tear stain. Angela couldn’t tell if it was from you or from her. Looking inside the bag again, the rest of the lunch was indeed her favorite, containers stacked in a meticulous way that came from the utmost care. Her heart caught in her throat. It really had been you this whole time. Not just the lunches, but in every quiet way that mattered more than screaming it to the world, and she had barely even grasped how much she loved you too. Fuck.
She grabbed her phone and called you without a second thought. When you picked up, it sounded like you had been crying.
“Hey Ange.”
“Hey. I got your note.”
You sniffled. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. I love you too, you silly goose. And you got my favorite lunch right.”
You let out a relieved sigh, voice still shaky from crying. “Thank god, I took forever interrogating Amanda for that. What do you want for lunch tomorrow?”
“Nothing.”
“What?”
“I want to take you on a date instead. Wherever you want.”
She heard your breath hitch. “Really?”
“Really.”
A/N: She can finish a fic and post it???? Crazy. Lowkey embarrassed at how long it's taking me to write rn guys but I'm trying I promise. I have like constant brain fog and I'm tired 24/7 tho. Anyway have the first belated pride month fic that I started during June but couldn't finish during June.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
I promise I’m writing guys I just keep starting fics and not finishing them but maybe one day I’ll get the motivation to finish them and then we’ll all throw a party to celebrate
(This applies to requests too I’m sorry my lovely requesters they’re being written at a snail’s pace but there are words on the page for each of them! It’s the little things)
Hi guys, I wouldn't normally do this, but we're really struggling right now. If you could share this with others, maybe think about donating, I would be forever grateful.
My name is Theodosia and my dad and I are in trouble financially. We live together… Theodosia Lacey needs your support for Help To Keep Our
We're really struggling to stay afloat right now, and I hate seeing how hard my dad works without being able to show anything for it. Minimum wage only goes so far, and his job won't give him a promotion or raise at all. I'm still looking for work, but no one has contacted me yet. I would really, really appreciate any help at all. I love you guys. 🤍
I'm going to tag all my tag list people so this reaches a larger audience, but don't feel obligated to interact. I will also be adding unrelated tags for this to be seen. I apologise in advance for people who get annoyed over it. I appreciate all the people in my phone, please do your thing 🤍
I unfortunately don’t have the money to donate right now but if you can please please please help out @rosessanctuary and their dad! It would mean a lot :)
Hiya! Not sure what ur comfortable writing about could u do something w/ amanda x female character that is autistic? Like reader struggles socially and with noise or something. How would amanda dote on her? Maybe reader is a new hire at smosh but does work behind camera
Everything Will Be Alright
Amanda Lehan-Canto x autistic gn!reader
TW: Anxiety attack, noise overload, typical moose master shenanigans, mostly sweet fluffy being taken care of content, once again I am not autistic so this may not be entirely accurate but I would appreciate any feedback! This is also my very first Amanda fic so it's shorter than usual and I'm still trying to get the characterization right.
Breathe in for three. Hold for three. Out for three. Just like your therapist had taught you. Moose Master was a hard thing for you to handle, even on a good day. It was loud, unhinged, and there was a 500% increase in screaming. You were sitting behind the main camera with Anders, watching as Trevor got on the table and Angela tried to tackle him off.
“Do you think I need to have 911 on speed dial?” You whispered to him, watching as Trevor used her being distracted to attempt to tie her shoelaces together.
“It’s probably fine, I think. Amanda’s trying to separate them.”
Your poor girlfriend was indeed, trying to pull them apart to no avail. Angela started to scream in both Trevor and Amanda’s face while Shayne wheezed in the back. Breathe. You started to bounce your leg. 30 more minutes and you could go hide in your office. Easy enough.
Until Trevor started to yell back. You knew it was a joke, logically, everything today had been. But the screaming match developing caused your chest to tighten. The next thing you knew, everything felt like it was underwater. The play-fighting echoed through your ears and into your brain, ringing. You gripped your jeans tight to steady yourself, clawing at the denim so hard you nearly broke through the fabric. You barely heard Anders call 5 and step in to stop the chaos, focused on your shoes. Too loud, everything was too loud. You put your hands over your ears, shaking. Stop stop stop stop stop stop.
All of a sudden, a hand pulled yours away from your ear and slipped something into it, muting the noise. They did the same with the other before passing you a small water bottle. You clenched the plastic as they uncapped it and helped you drink. Their hand cradled your chin gently, and you recognized the soft skin of your girlfriend’s palm and tried to use it to ground yourself.
Amanda’s here, everything will be fine.
Once you finished the water, she gently lifted you out of the chair and onto your feet, keeping a steadying hand on the small of your back. Without speaking, she led you to your office and onto your favorite beanbag chair, handing you the giraffe stuffed animal that lived on your desk. You curled up into a ball, burying your nose in the fabric. It smelled like tea tree oil, something you had discovered soothed you after panicking in a soap store. She kept the big light off, opting to turn on a salt lamp in the corner instead. The soft pink glow illuminated her face, and for a second you ignored the knot in your stomach as you took in how truly beautiful she was.
She caught your wide-eyed gaze, meeting it with a gentle smile as she put a sign up on your door before shutting it and locking it. She sat down next to you, not touching you, just existing, and you finally unclenched your hands. Your earplugs meant you couldn’t hear a single word from the outside world, and you took a shaky breath.
You weren’t sure how long the two of you sat there, you focusing on your breathing and Amanda relaxing into the plush gray fabric. You only were disturbed once, and she quickly went outside to shoo the intruder off. When she came back, you finally spoke. “Thank you.”
“Anytime my love. Are you feeling better?”
“Kind of. Enough to do some light work with white noise on.”
She hummed. “Okay, good. I’ll bring you a snack later. Don’t push it.”
“I don’t think I could if I tried.”
“Linus will be here to keep an eye on you to make sure you don’t.” You clung a little tighter to the giraffe, named Linus because he was just like Linus’ blanket from The Peanuts.
“Linus will be in my lap the whole time.”
She pecked your forehead. “I have to get to work now lovie, but text me if you need anything.”
“Have I ever told you you’re the best?”
“Yes, but I wouldn’t mind hearing it again.”
You chuckled lightly at the goofy grin on her face. “You’re the best.”
“You only deserve the best.”
“Sap.”
“Only for you.”
She got you settled in your chair, Linus in tow, and turned on a slightly brighter lamp so you wouldn’t get a headache. You kissed her, feeling her eyelashes tickle your skin as she closed her eyes.
“I love you darling.”
“I love you too, my love, take care.”
“I will.”
You watched as she closed the door quietly behind her, leaving you in your peaceful bubble. You sighed, answering texts from your concerned friends before opening the most recent thumbnail you had been editing. A text from Amanda popped up on your screen, and it was impossible not to smile when you read it.
Everything will be alright. Take a deep breath. Love you ❤️
Everything would be alright indeed.
A/N: Short and sweet! I love a good being taking care of soft fic. As previously mentioned this is my first Amanda fic! I'm still figuring it out so it's taking me longer to get to these requests but I promise your Amanda content is coming don't worry pookies.
Being in a secret relationship with your best friend and coworker is hard, and it’s even harder when you’re both in the public eye. But with a little help from your friends, you find that loving each other out loud is worth more than all the potential hate combined.
TW: Fear of homophobia and hate, Y/N usage (twice), slight disagreement between main couple, insecurities, seven minutes in heaven used as a confession mechanism, mention of nudes (boob pics), making out and heavy petting, innuendos, reader would wait forever for angela, shourtney being the blueprint
All that I know is I want you forever
And nothing like this could be wrong
If people on Earth think that they know us better than we do
Then I'll live on the moon with you
If we lived on the moon - vivi rincon
The annual Smosh Pride Party was a big deal. People had been talking about it nonstop for the past month. So when the day came and you suddenly found yourself surrounded by streamers and balloons, you were buzzing with excitement, just like everyone else at the office. You had a rum and coke in your hand, comfortably perched on the arm of the Games couch when you felt a warm presence pull you into a hug. You felt yourself nearly purr at the touch of your girlfriend of six months.
“Hey Ange, what’s up?”
“Missed you.” She mumbled into your shoulder, her vodka cran precariously balanced in her hand.
“I missed you too.” You giggled. The sound of her tipsy voice was like music to your ears. She got extra clingy when she was drunk, which made it easy to play off her endless affection for you as just friendship.
Tommy gave you a knowing look from where he was sipping his drink. He was the only one who knew about the two of you besides Ian and Anthony, due to an unfortunate incident where he had been too nosy and read Angela’s texts to you over her shoulder one game night, getting an eyeful of your tits (via photo) in the process.
You weren’t ashamed, you had good boobs, and Angela was extremely inclined to agree, but that didn’t make the interrogation portion any less awkward. In the end, he not only agreed you had good boobs (a win in your book) but also to keep it a secret, on the condition that he could start a betting pool.
Angela started placing kisses along your neck and shoulders, and you reluctantly pried her off of you. “Be careful, someone will see.”
“Maybe I want them to see.”
You shook your head and she went quiet. “We talked about this, and you didn’t want to in case it got posted somewhere, so we can’t.”
You watched her shift uncomfortably before sighing. “Fine, I’m going to go somewhere else then to resist… this menace.” She gestured to you in your tight tank top and mini skirt. “Don’t get into too much trouble without me.”
“No promises.” She smiled and rubbed your shoulder before walking off. As soon as she turned away from you, you deflated like an empty balloon and took a large swig of your drink.
“She doesn’t want to tell people?” Tommy asked, looking at the tears welling in your eyes.
You took another drink to steady yourself. “It’s not that. She just doesn’t want online stuff to ruin everything by tearing into my private life too, she claims it’s ‘already ruined hers’ enough. She’s worried that us in the background of one thing could send people after me for dating her, not to mention how certain people would feel about two women being an out and proud couple on screen.” Tommy nodded pensively, letting you continue. “She means well. I just can’t help but want to love her out loud. And I know she feels the same, but she’s had the weight of people’s negative comments on her shoulders for years, so she wants to be careful.”
“But?”
“But it hurts still, especially on nights like tonight where everyone except us can be out and themselves. I wanted to announce it to everyone and be able to celebrate tonight, but she made too many good points for me to ignore.”
“So you’re going to wait until she’s ready?”
You nodded, leaning your head back against the cushion. “Of course I will.”
—------
In the next room, Angela was nursing her drink in silence. She wanted to enjoy the music, the drinks, and all the people, but all she could think about was the resigned look on your face and the hurt in your eyes.
Court came over and bumped shoulders with her. “What’s got you so low?”
Angela sighed deeply before looking at them. “How did you know to tell everyone about you and Shayne?”
“Like everyone everyone? Or just the people we knew?”
“Both?”
“It was gradual and scary. But eventually the pain of staying secret outweighed the terror of telling everyone. It nearly tore us apart.” Angela frowned, she couldn’t imagine either of her friends without the other. “I was so scared of telling people, and we fought so much because of it, and I realized I had to decide between keeping him and telling everyone, or telling no one and losing him.”
“And you chose him.”
“Obviously.” Court looked across the room where Shayne was wheezing, doubled over at something Damien had said. “I couldn’t imagine my life without him. It was hard, but it was worth it. I would do it again in a heartbeat.”
Angela was quiet for a moment, almost to a concerning degree, when she spoke up again. “Can I tell you something?”
“Of course my love.”
“Y/N and I have been dating for six months, and she wants to tell everyone. And I’m scared people knowing will mess everything up. I love her too much to lose her Court.”
Courtney had to hold in a squeal, but regained their composure. “It’ll be a big change, but I think the two of you can do it. We’re all here for you.”
“She wanted to do it tonight. I want to do it tonight, but at this point, I don’t know how. And I want to talk to her before we tell everyone, but there’s nowhere quiet around.”
Courtney thought for a moment. “I have an idea.”
—-------
Subtlety was dead and gone when it came to the Smosh Cast. Courtney found a megaphone and loudly announced, “It’s time for Truth or Dare! Anyone who doesn’t join is respected but also heavily shamed!”
She dragged Angela back onto the games set, shoving her onto the couch between you and Spencer, who were having a heated conversation about which Zelda game was the best. She slammed into the cushions with a soft ‘oof’.
“That looked like it hurt.”
“Not really, just knocked the wind out of me a little.” She flashed you a grin. “Hi.”
“Hi.”
Spencer pretended to vomit behind her and you shot him a glare. He mouthed ‘Just kiss already’ and you mouthed ‘Fuck you’ back. Angela was zoned out watching Courtney wrangle everyone who wanted to play into the room like a cattle dog, running back and forth across the set. When she finally got everything settled, she started the game.
“Spencer, truth or dare?” There was a mischievous twinkle in their eye.
“Dare.”
“I dare you to give Shayne a lap dance.”
Spencer groaned and stood up, trying (and failing) to walk seductively over to Shayne, who was laughing so hard he was halfway off his chair, then did the most lackluster hip wiggle you’d ever seen.
Before long, the entire room was committed to the bit, trading truths and dares back and forth rapid fire. You finally had stopped laughing enough to take a deep breath and reapply your lipgloss when Court addressed you.
“Y/N, truth or dare?”
“Dare?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Seven minutes in Heaven. You. Angela. Closet.” She pointed to the prop closet in the corner. “Have fun!”
Your eyes widened. “What?”
Angela stood up and grabbed your hand, helping you up. Quietly, she said, “It’ll be okay, promise.”
“Okay.”
As soon as the door shut behind the two of you, Angela looked at you through heavily lidded eyes. “We should tell them.”
“Ange, you know we can’t."
She put her forehead against yours, squeezing your hands tight. “I talked to Court, and they made me realize that you are more important to me than what anyone on the internet thinks. I’m so incredibly scared, but I love you too much to keep this to ourselves anymore. And everyone here? They’re our friends, and they all looked thrilled that we went into this closet together. And even if they didn’t approve, this is our relationship and our life together, not theirs.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“And you want to tell them by making out?”
“Not necessarily, but I’ve wanted to kiss you all night and I don’t think I can go back now that I have you here. You look absolutely gorgeous honey.”
You paused for a moment to give her another out. “You’re sure you’re sure about this? There’s no going back.”
She put her arms around your waist and you breathed in, smelling her jasmine perfume. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”
You surged forward, kissing her deeply just like you had been patiently waiting for all evening. The strawberry lipgloss you were wearing mixed with the taste of cranberry and lime on her tongue, creating an intoxicating mix you swore you’d be addicted to for the rest of your life. She pushed you up against the wall, caging you in, but you needed her closer. You pulled her flush to you by her belt and slipped your hand into her pocket. You felt her grin as you started to kiss her neck, grinding against her slowly.
“You’re so needy baby.”
“So are you.”
Somewhere in the distance a timer went off. When neither of you responded to the calls of the group, Court took it upon themself to open the door. They weren’t entirely surprised by what they saw.
They wolf whistled loudly, half out of feigned shock and half to get your attention. “Damn! Get it babes!”
At the sudden bright light, Angela pulled away from you, running a hand through her hair. “There’ll be more of that at home later, promise.” She winked at you and you fought off a whine. Her white shirt was unbuttoned at the top, collar covered in your lipgloss, and the sight of it made you want to pull the door back shut.
You took a second to fix your own shirt as the two of you looked at the crowd of your flabbergasted friends, then you took her hand.
“Uh, we wanted to tell you guys something. We’ve been dating for six months.” You watched Amanda grumble goodnaturedly and hand a $20 bill to Chanse.
“We wanted to wait to tell you guys because well, everyone knows Chanse has a big mouth.” He threw a pillow at her and it hit her in the knee. “But mostly because I was scared of what everyone would think. But Court reminded me that some people are worth doing things scared for.” She looked at you fondly and you leaned your head on her shoulder.
“So you decided to do it by making us watch you make out?” Spencer raised an eyebrow.
“I didn’t make you do anything, if you watched that’s your own deal.”
Amanda ruffled his hair. “Damn, someone’s in trouble. Next time ask before you watch two girls kiss Spence, this isn’t porn.”
“I can never have anything nice here.”
You laughed and led her back to your spot next to him on the couch. “Personally I think you should pay us for a premium viewing experience. Especially during Pride Month.”
He groaned and slid to the floor. “Next time do your ‘premium viewing experience’ at home instead of at work.”
Angela grinned and grabbed your chin, kissing you again. She cuddled into you like a big blanket, and you smeared one of the pink kiss marks on her cheek with your thumb. “No can do. No more hiding.”
She hummed happily. “No more hiding.”
A/N: Shout out to my emotional support lipgloss for inspiring me on this one. It truly goes with me everywhere. My cups are always stained pink on the rim.
Reader has a depressive episode, and though Spencer wants to take all the pain away, it's clear that love can't fix everything.
TW: Based on one of my real life depressive episodes, (yayyyy outlet fic), thoughts of death, wanting to disappear, insecurities, big big depression things and if that's triggering please don't read this, hyperventilating while crying, potential avoidant attachment, anxiety attack (implied), exhaustion, body and mind giving up, reader has a terrible, no good, very bad day, lots of spiraling, hopelessness
And my head is full of poison
And my heart is full of doubt
I got toxins in my bloodstream
You tried hard to suck 'em out
And it feels like medication
And it's good for me, I'm sure
But it don't matter how your love feels, anymore
It'll never be the cure
The Cure - Olivia Rodrigo
Heavy. Everything felt heavy. You laid in bed, alarm continuing to ring, but you had no strength to lift up your arm and turn it off. All you could do was listen to the shrill tone and stare at the ceiling. It felt like hours before you could roll over and gather the willpower to silence your phone and tell Ian that you weren’t feeling well enough to go to work today. You even managed to send a text to your boyfriend, telling him that you wouldn’t be there. That was all you could do. You tried to scroll, but everything was a blur of color. Color didn’t feel right. Not today.
You turned onto your back, staring at the ceiling and listening to the rain outside. Gray felt correct. It matched the hollowness in your chest. You heard your phone buzzing, probably with texts from your concerned friends, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. Nothing mattered anyway.
You let the weight of everything pull you down, taking what little autonomy you had away. Spiraling, you thought about all the disappointment that you had caused, the people you’d lost, the things you could’ve been, the mistake you’d made, the overwhelming grief of everything you’d ever done. It all crashed into you like a broken dam, and you found yourself drowning in the blink of an eye.
You were so sorry. For everything. You wished you could fix it or be a better person or something. But you couldn’t change it, no matter what you did. Tears started to stream out of your eyes, and as it all hit you, you started to hyperventilate. The small sobs turned into frantic gasps for air as you became more and more trapped. Suddenly, a shadow of a figure stood over you on the bed. You hoped it was death, coming to take you away from your suffering, but all it did was sit you up so you didn’t choke on your own snot. You brought your face to your knees, avoiding looking at him.
Catching your breath, you managed to force out words, “Go away Spencer.”
“No.” You felt your weight shift as he sat on the bed. “You need someone here.”
“You don’t deserve to suffer along with me. Go home.”
“Your therapist said it’s better to have someone with you when you get like this, I’m not leaving.”
You lifted your head briefly to glare at him, then turned onto your side to hide your crying. The hollow ache was only growing, consuming your every thought. You didn’t want him to see you this way.
He interrupted your thoughts quietly. “Do you want to sleep?”
“Maybe.”
“Do you want me to sleep with you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you want water?”
“Please stop asking me questions.” It came out harsher than you intended, but you couldn’t bring yourself to take it back. “I don’t want anything.”
“Okay.” Spencer’s voice came out in a whisper. “I’m going to go work in the living room, please let me know if you do.” He pressed a kiss to the top of your head.
You didn’t answer.
—-----------
You didn’t know how long it had been since you’d forced Spencer out of your room. You had been staring at the wall for the majority of the day, spiraling and attempting to cover the sound of your crying with your blanket. Finally, your body screamed for water, so you made your concrete bones get out of bed.
You snuck past Spencer, who had fallen asleep on the couch somewhere in the middle of editing a games video and filled a glass of water from the kitchen sink. You drank one, then refilled it to take it to your room. Halfway there, your body decided that since you’d had water, it was time to go back to your tomb of existential dread and stopped you dead in your tracks. Going back to bed was too much work. You set your water glass down on the side table and laid on the carpet in front of your couch. It was as good of a place as any.
The ceiling here was more interesting than the one in your room. The fading light of the day mixed with the raindrops on your windowpanes created streaks of warmth that were brighter than anything you had seen all day. It was almost calming. Almost.
Spencer stirred, blearily blinking as he noticed you on the floor. “You moved.”
“Got water. Gave up halfway through.”
“Can I join?”
“Sure.” He dragged the blanket he had been tucked under over to you, covering the two of you before fully laying down. The sunlight, the blanket, and his presence lightened the burden a little. “I’m sorry for being mean earlier.”
“It’s okay, you were overwhelmed.”
“Still, you just wanted to help.”
“No offense, but I don’t know if you wanted to be helped.”
“Not particularly.”
The two of you spent a while in silence, you thinking and Spencer falling into a dreamy half slumber, before you spoke again.
“Sometimes I just want to disappear.” Spencer hummed, prompting you to continue. “Like if I laid on the forest floor, the moss could grow over me like a blanket and I’d become part of the Earth.”
“I’d miss you.”
You sighed shakily. “I’m tired, Spence. Tired of living like this.”
He squeezed your hand under the blanket. “I know honey. I just wish there was more I could do.”
“I think I’m broken. Irreparable. You shouldn’t have to fix me. I don’t know if I’m fixable. All I do is drag you down.”
“Hey, listen to me. You are not broken.” You opened your mouth to protest, but he stopped you, continuing. “You are you. I would not have you any other way, and that includes the messy and bad days. I just want you to feel better, and that means being here with you, no fixing involved.”
You took a moment before responding. “What if I never get better?”
“I’ll still be here.”
“You deserve someone who isn’t like this. Someone who won’t snap at you or stare at the ceiling for an entire day.”
“I only want you and I’m choosing you, even on days like today, because I love you more than anything in the world.”
That made your thoughts still. “Okay.”
“Okay.”
“I love you too.”
He squeezed your hand again, then got up. “I’m hungry, so I’m going to make grilled cheese.”
Your stomach finally grumbled, alerting you for the first time that day. “Can I have one too please?”
“Of course, extra cheese, just how you like it.”
A/N: This is based on a real event that happened to me on Saturday where I stared at the ceiling for hours and had a panic attack. Sometimes bad days happen, and you can get through them, even if it feels incredibly hard. You can do hard things. Take care of yourselves and each other 💜
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Angela Giarratana x f!baker reader, platonic Courtney Miller x f!reader
In which going to your friend’s birthday party leads to a meeting that means more than you ever expected.
TW: Money troubles, reader is pushing themselves too much lowkey, introverted reader goes to a big party, Y/N usage, stereotypical uhaul lesbians move in together right after they meet, like one sentence of angst, reader is capital B-A-D bad at cooking but great at baking
I'm the perfect mix of Saturday night and the rest of your life
Anyone with a heart would agree
It's so easy
To fall in love with me
So Easy (To Fall in Love) - Olivia Dean
Like anything, it started off small. Your bakery was scraping by and your personal savings were slowly draining, but you loved what you did. You were up at 4 to make and proof the dough, putting muffins in the oven at 6 so they’d be warm when you opened at 7, with the worn espresso machine whirring tiredly on the counter. Your apron was perpetually stained with fruit and chocolate, you always had a little flour in your hair, and more often than not, your fingertips were burned from your old pair of oven mitts.
Your regulars said you looked exhausted, you said you were happy as you were. Your friends tried to set you up on dates, but none of them went anywhere when they realized you went to bed early and got up even earlier, and your cooking skills were nowhere near as good as your baking skills. Your employees said you needed to close more often (and you thought they were probably biased) and take more time for yourself. You paid none of them any mind, content with testing new recipes until your eyes stung from the lights on your days off.
And like every Friday morning for the past two months, Courtney Miller waltzed in the door fiending for a pastry for her and her husband.
“Morning Court!”
“Hi babe, can I please have two strawberry matchas and oooooh, how about an almond scone and a chocolate chip muffin?”
You smiled at them as they excitedly pointed to the pastries in the case. “Coming right up.”
You passed them to her as Nicole started on her matcha, and she bit into the scone and moaned. “This is the most delicious thing I’ve had in a long time Y/N. You always know how to make a person’s day.”
“I’m so glad!”
“You’re coming tonight right? I absolutely need my people to meet the girl who’s been providing sweet treats for the office for months now.”
“Of course, and I’ll bring the cake you ordered, though I still think you shouldn’t have had to pay.”
“You’re running a business my dear, it’s already an added bonus that you’re able to make it to the party.”
“I am staying up way past my bedtime for you. You’re lucky Gene likes to come in with me to work on his sourdough concoctions, otherwise I’d be dead on my feet tomorrow.”
“Well, I have to go, see you tonight cutie!”
“See you later!”
You sighed and turned to the next customer. How overwhelming could a party be?
—--------
Very. Courtney and Shayne’s house was lit up like a club, colors shifting in rainbow order in a way that was nearly dizzying. There was a huge rainbow balloon tied to their mailbox and it was gently blowing in the wind, reflecting the lights back onto the paneling, making their house seem to glow. You shifted the cake box in your arms, balancing that and a tote bag full of loaves of bread and a bottle of wine on your shoulder. It seemed unkind to show up to a birthday party without a gift after all.
The door swung open wildly and Court appeared with a smile on their face and a very glittery party hat on their head. “Hello my love! How are you?”
You carefully made your way up their front steps and into their waiting arms. “I’m very good! How are you?”
“Amazing!” She took your elbow, guiding you through the thralls of people. You saw Shayne arguing with a dark-haired man in a corner, hands gesturing wildly. He saw you and waved, and you smiled back, nearly losing your footing as you tripped over a stray shoe.
“Goddamnit, I told people to put their shoes out of the way.”
“It’s alright, the cake is safe and that’s what matters.”
They giggled and parted the sea of bodies to get the two of you to the kitchen, which was only a little less crowded. You set the cake down with a relieved sigh, then turned to Court to give them your full attention. “I come bearing gifts!” You started digging through the bag. “Blueberry lemon sourdough, cinnamon apple bread, and a garlic butter moment for your savory stuff. Oh! And wine.” You pulled the wine out of the bag. “I figured you’d want this now. Everything else you should probably hide from people. You can keep the bag until I see you again.”
“This is too much, but I am not going to refuse food.”
Shayne came up behind Courtney and gave them a hug, the dark-haired man following behind. “Y/N! Did you bring goodies?”
“Even better, I brought the cake and goodies. But the treats are only for the two of you.”
The dark-haired man took a peek in the bag and whistled. “Damn, those look good.” He sighed dramatically, leaning on Shayne’s shoulder. “I wish I could have some.”
Court shoved him away. “Make your own baker friend, she’s mine.”
“Any friend of yours is a friend of mine.” He held out his hand. “Damien Haas.”
“Y/N L/N, nice to meet you.”
“Grab a drink and I’ll introduce you to everyone! I assume Court hasn’t been a very good host in that regard yet.”
Courtney groaned. “Shut up and go away.”
You grabbed a can of Sprite out of the cooler on the floor and started to follow Damien, who introduced you to every person in sight. They all seemed very friendly, but you felt out of the loop. They all clearly knew each other very well, and you just, didn’t.
You tapped Damien on the shoulder. “Hey, I’m gonna try to find somewhere quieter.”
He frowned, clearly otherwise enraptured in a conversation with someone named…. Timothy? Tom? Tommy. That was it. “Do you want me to come with you?”
You shook your head. “I’m okay, thanks though.”
You slipped upstairs quietly, finding a seat in a chair in Court and Shayne’s room. Bones peeked his head out from under the bed at the sound of your movement, and meowed in a soft recognition of your presence before tucking himself back into his hiding spot. You curled up, leaning your head on the armrest tiredly. Maybe you should go home and sleep.
As your eyes were fighting to stay open, a girl opened the door to the room. She was gorgeous, with big brown eyes and a kind voice that soothed you so much that you barely registered when she spoke. “Hey, sorry, they said I could take a minute in here.”
You tried to right yourself, leaning on your elbow. “You’re good. I needed somewhere quiet too.”
“Usually I’m the loud one, but I just can’t do it tonight. I don’t know what it is.”
“I’m just tired. I’m usually tucked into bed by now.”
She sat on the floor across from you. “Man, I kinda wish. Did you at least have any of the cake downstairs? That made this party more than worth coming to at the very least.”
“I didn’t, but I made it, so it’s a little irrelevant since I know what it tastes like.”
Her jaw dropped open. “You made that? That’s like, a very professional looking and tasting cake.”
You giggled. “I hate to break this to you, but I do own a bakery.”
“No way. You’re the famous Y/N! I’m Angela and I’m a huge fan of your work.”
“I wouldn’t say famous. But thank you Angela.”
“Famous to us! You’ve gotten us through some hard times.”
You felt a tinge of pink creep up your neck. “I’m really glad you like what I make. I love doing it.” You started to wring your fingers together, thinking of nights spent at your kitchen counter, pushing pennies around to cover bills. “Can I be honest though? You seem nice and like you have a good head on your shoulders.”
She laughed brightly. “I’m sure some people would disagree about that last part, but I’m more than happy to try and help with whatever’s on your mind.”
“I don’t know if it's gonna last much longer. Rent for the bakery and my apartment is just so high in LA, and I’m not bringing in enough to keep both.” You looked down at your hands. “Especially not with stuff like my student loans. It’s only a matter of time before it goes boom.” You mimed an explosion with your hands and her eyes widened.
There was a moment of silence before she spoke. “Move in with me.” Your head snapped up to look at her incredulously, but there was no hint of a joke on her face. “I know we just met. And I know it’s forward. But it really seems like you could use the help.”
“I couldn’t do that, I don’t want to impose on you.”
She shrugged and gave a small smile. “My roommate moved out a few weeks ago. She hated my dog.”
“How dare she!”
“I know! Anyway, Spork and I would be happy to have you. You can pay me in baked goods. Simple as that, as long as you like dogs.”
“I can’t just let you foot the bill on your own, that seems unfair.”
“We’ll work something out, but that means you have to agree to move in with me.”
You sighed. “At this point, I’m willing to do anything to try and keep it running.”
“And I really like cake. It’s a win-win.”
“Deal.”
—--------
Living with a roommate took a little getting used to, but you found that you liked it more than living by yourself. Spork was a nice companion for your early turn-ins, and you bought a soft, carpeted flight of stairs to help him get onto your bed as soon as you realized he couldn’t do it by himself. He slept curled up by your head, and though it was a little more damp than usual, you couldn’t help but feel more loved by the dog than you had by anyone else in your life.
And of course, there was Angela. Angela, who let you curl up next to her in bed to watch Tiktoks before sleeping. Angela, who cooked you dinner after you admitted you were scared of cooking meat, then proceeded to both burn and leave it completely raw on the inside when she tried to teach you. Angela, who you started to orbit like the sun without even knowing.
She was bright and bubbly and funny, just like on camera, but she had a softer side that meant she liked her hair brushed after a bad day, jazz music and a warm chocolate chip cookie. And in between those soft and loud moments, you had fallen head over heels for her.
It all came to a head one night while you were watching Romeo and Juliet. Well, Angela was watching Romeo and Juliet, and you were watching her mouth all the words out of the corner of your eye while you pretended to be interested in the movie.
“Do you believe in true love?”
You paused. “Hmm, I don’t know. Like soulmates, fate, what are we talking?”
“Any and all.”
You ran your hand over the edge of the blanket the two of you were sharing. “I don’t think predestined is a thing, like that would stop us from being human, y’know? But I’d like to think there’s soulmates and stuff. Like some people I just click with more than others and I know they’re meant to be in my life. But also I’d like to choose. I think choosing who you love is more romantic than being shoved together by some all-seeing whatever.”
She hummed thoughtfully. “So you’ve been in love?”
You glanced at her briefly, then went back to playing with the frayed hem. “Yeah. I have.”
“Can I ask you for advice then?”
You felt your heart sink but tried to keep your voice light. “Of course Ange.”
“I’m in love with this girl, and I know she loves me back, but telling her just… never feels right. Even though I know how she feels, I’m still scared to ruin what we have.”
“I’m sure if she’s told you then there’s no way you can ruin it.”
“That’s the thing, she hasn’t told me. But I’ve never felt this way before, and I can just tell. We’re so close that it would be impossible for me not to know. I feel like we can read each other’s minds sometimes.”
You looked up at her hopefully. “Maybe she’s just waiting for you to say it aloud. Maybe she’s scared of losing you too.”
“She could never.” She said it with such fierceness that you couldn’t stop yourself from throwing yourself across the couch and into her arms.
“You could never lose me either. You’re stuck with me for good.”
You wrapped yourself around her like a koala, nearly purring as she scratched the sensitive spot near the base of your neck. She started murmuring to you gently as you felt yourself relax. “The girl I’m in love with is so beautiful. She smells like lavender and vanilla and I’ll never let her touch a chicken breast again out of fear for my life.”
“That was one time.” You grumbled against her chest.
“And she laughs at all my bad jokes and steals my dog from me.”
“He chooses me, that’s not my fault.”
She tilted your head up gently. “I know it’s not.” You felt your eyes flutter close as she kissed you, melting like putty in her arms with the end credits to the movie rolling in the background.
Just a reminder for pride that I do write wlw smosh fics (on top of my Damien and Spencer stuff) and my requests are open!! I’ve seen a couple ppl posting about wanting more Amanda and Angela fics and I am more than happy to write them, I have a few in the works rn but I always appreciate inspo 🥰
Summary: You would compromise and compete in the couples competition, Pride edition, if that's what it meant to keep the love of your life.
Word Count: 9.6k
Warnings: no use of Y/N
A/N: Hello everyone! Happy Pride! I am hoping to write a fic a day for Pride Month, so if you have any ideas for any of the people I write for, or even someone new, send them my way!
Masterlist
The smell of garlic and butter fills your apartment while you stir pasta sauce on the stove.
Angela sits on the counter beside you, one foot swinging against the cabinets, her phone in one hand and a half-eaten piece of garlic bread in the other. She has been home for maybe twenty minutes, but she still carries the energy of the Smosh office with her. Loud, bright, restless, alive. The kind of person who walks into a room and makes it feel like something is about to happen.
You are the opposite.
You like quiet rooms. Predictable rooms. Rooms where no one expects you to be interesting on command.
This kitchen is one of those rooms.
The evening light cuts through the window in soft gold. The sauce bubbles. Angela hums under her breath. You know where everything is, the good spoon, the chipped blue mug, the pasta bowl Angela insists is lucky even though it is just a bowl. Nothing here asks you to perform.
Here, you can breathe.
At Smosh, it is different.
You and Angela both work there. You’ve been at the company for about four years, long enough that the building should feel familiar. For Angela, it does. She moves through Smosh like she belongs everywhere. Cast, crew, production, editors, people passing through for one shoot, people who have been around for years, Angela somehow knows them all.
People know her laugh before they see her.
You are mostly known by your closed edit bay door.
You are not unfriendly. You say good morning. You answer questions. You smile when someone makes a hallway joke. But you keep your headphones on, eat lunch at strange times, and plan your day around the quietest path through the building.
You know the production schedule better than most people realize. You know which rooms are booked, which shoots will run long, who is filming where, and when the kitchen will be empty. Your job is to make everyone else look good. You cut the awkward pauses, find the reaction shots, tighten jokes, smooth pacing, and turn hours of chaos into something people think was effortless.
You are good at shaping the content.
You are not good at being in it.
Some of that is your choice.
Some of it, if you are honest, is that people stopped trying to get you in it a long time ago.
Not cruelly. No one pushed you out. No one was mean. They just learned your patterns. Short answers. Polite smiles. Quick exits. Eventually, people stopped asking you to lunch. They stopped inviting you into conversations unless they needed something. Everyone stayed kind, but kind from a distance.
Angela has friends at Smosh.
You have coworkers.
Chanse is the closest thing to an exception. He has been friends with Angela for about as long as you and Angela have been together, so he knows more than most people. He knows you are not new. He knows you are not casual. He knows Angela goes home to you, complains to you, celebrates with you, curls into you when the day has been too much.
But even Chanse mostly knows you through Angela.
He knows about you.
He does not really know you.
Amanda knows too, but more gently. More surface-level. She knows you and Angela are together. She knows you live together. She knows enough to be happy for Angela without prying.
Almost no one else knows.
To most of Smosh, Angela is just Angela.
And you are just the quiet editor in the bay.
At home, though, you are not quiet. Not really. At home, you argue passionately about takeout fries. You dance badly while washing dishes. You steal Angela’s sweatshirts and pretend you do not know where they went. You make the same pasta every Tuesday because the ritual keeps the week from tipping sideways. You laugh so hard at Angela’s stories that she repeats the same ones even when you both know the punchline.
At home, Angela gets the version of you most people never look long enough to find.
“Courtney posted something,” Angela says.
The tone of her voice makes you glance over.
“Yeah?”
“Smosh is doing Pride Month content. The couple's competition is officially happening.”
You nod because you already know. Of course you know. You saw the schedule when it went into the production calendar. You saw the working title, the shoot date, the call time, the rough challenge list. You know Shayne and Courtney are doing it. You know Chanse and Amanda are likely hosting. You know the edit deadline, the estimated runtime, and which bay the footage will probably end up in.
You know everything except the part Angela says next.
“We could do it too.”
The wooden spoon stills in your hand.
Angela watches you carefully, her phone forgotten beside her on the counter.
Your mind moves faster than the rest of you. It gives you the whole thing at once. The set. The lights. The cameras. You beside Angela where people can see. Not just coworkers, which would already be enough to make your skin tighten, but viewers. Strangers. Comment sections. Paused frames. People deciding whether you are awkward, boring, cold, uncomfortable, wrong for her.
People deciding whether your love looks convincing.
You turn back to the sauce because it gives you somewhere to look.
“Ang,” you say carefully, “I don't really do on-camera stuff.”
“You’ve been in videos before.”
“For ten seconds. In the background. Once because Tommy dragged me into a bit.”
“And you were funny.”
“I was terrified.”
“You were both.”
Despite yourself, you huff out a laugh.
Angela hops down from the counter and comes to stand beside you. She doesn't touch you yet. After seven years, she knows better than to put her hands on you when your body is already bracing.
“Color?” she asks.
The question pulls you back into the room.
The color system started years ago after a panic attack neither of you knew how to handle. Green meant fine. Yellow meant anxious but present. Orange meant close to the edge. Red meant stop, no questions, no pushing, get somewhere quiet.
You look down at your hands.
“Yellow,” you admit.
Angela nods. “Okay. Yellow.”
No judgment. No sigh. No disappointment.
Just yellow.
“I’m not asking because I want to throw you into something awful,” she says. “I’m asking because we have been together for seven years, and almost nobody at work knows I have this whole life with you.”
“Some people know.”
“Chanse knows. Amanda knows a little. That’s basically it.”
Your throat tightens because she’s right.
Shayne doesn't know. Courtney doesn’t know. Spencer doesn’t know. Arasha doesn’t know. Most of the people who smile at you in the hall have no idea that Angela goes home with you, that the person they see lighting up the office falls asleep on your shoulder during bad movies, that she leaves half-full water glasses on every flat surface in your apartment like evidence of a very committed haunting.
Angela’s voice softens. “I know you aren’t ashamed of me.”
“I’m not.”
“I know.” Her eyes flicker over your face. “But sometimes it still feels like I’m leaving the biggest part of my life at the door every morning.”
The words land quietly.
That makes them worse.
You set the spoon down.
“I’m not scared because I don’t know what would happen,” you say. “I know the format. I know the schedule. I know production would be kind. That is not the problem.”
Angela nods once. “The internet?”
You swallow hard. “The internet.”
There it is.
The comments.
The clips.
The still frames.
The strangers who talk like they know people because they’ve seen them for twenty minutes at a time.
You’ve edited enough videos to understand how fans can love something and still turn it into a microscope. You’ve seen people build theories out of facial expressions. You’ve seen them call discomfort chemistry and chemistry discomfort. You’ve seen Reddit threads and TikToks and quote tweets turn tiny moments into evidence.
Angela is used to being perceived.
You’ve built your life around avoiding it.
“I do not know how to have strangers form opinions about my face,” you say. “Or my voice. Or the way I sit next to you. Or whether I seem affectionate enough. Or whether I seem like someone you should love.”
Angela flinches at that last part.
“Hey,” she says softly. “There is no version of this where the internet gets a vote.”
“But they will act like they do.”
“Yeah,” she admits. “They might.”
You expected her to comfort you by denying it. Somehow, the honesty hurts less.
Angela steps closer, slow enough that you can move away if you need to. “Can I touch you?”
You nod.
Her hand settles between your shoulder blades.
“I don’t need us to be Shayne and Courtney,” she says. “I don’t need us to be cute in a polished way. I just want one little piece of my life to be wholly in public. Not all of it. Not everything. Just enough that I don’t feel like I have to edit you out of myself.”
You close your eyes.
You’re the editor.
And somehow, without meaning to, you have made Angela cut around you for years.
“I need to think,” you whisper.
“Okay.”
“I’m not saying no.”
Angela’s breath catches.
You look at her then, really look at her. Tired from work, hopeful despite herself, trying so hard not to ask too much. The love of your life standing barefoot in your kitchen, asking to be loved out loud just once.
You’re terrified.
But you love her more than you love being invisible.
“I am saying yellow,” you tell her.
Angela smiles, small and watery. “Okay. We can start with yellow.”
Dinner tastes like nothing.
You eat because Angela made you promise years ago that panic doesn’t get to cancel meals. She talks about her shoot. You tell her about an edit note. The conversation moves, but both of you can feel the video sitting there between the plates.
After dishes, you end up on the couch. Not on opposite ends. Angela sits close enough that her knee touches yours, but she lets you decide whether to lean in.
You do.
She exhales like she’s been waiting.
“I don’t want to fight,” she says.
“Me either.”
“I also don’t want you to say yes because you feel guilty.”
You stare at your hands. “I do feel guilty.”
“I know.”
“I hate that.”
“I know that too.”
The gentle answer makes your eyes burn.
Angela turns toward you, tucking one leg beneath herself. “Talk to me.”
You laugh weakly. “That is such a dangerous sentence.”
“I am feeling brave.”
“You are always brave.”
“No.” She shakes her head. “I am loud. That’s different.”
You look at her.
Angela’s expression is open in a way it rarely is outside your apartment. At Smosh, even when she is vulnerable, there is timing to it. A rhythm. A little bit of performance in the bones because performance is part of her job. Here, she is just Angela. Your Angela. Soft shirt, tired eyes, nervous hands.
“I’ve been scared too,” she says. “Not of people knowing I love you. Never that. But scared that asking for more would make you feel like I didn’t understand you.”
“You do understand me.”
“I do,” she says. “And sometimes understanding you means I know exactly why you hide. But loving you means I still miss you when you are hiding from everyone else.”
That undoes you a little.
You take a breath. It shakes going in.
“I didn’t realize how lonely it was for you,” you say.
“I didn’t want you to.”
“Why?”
“Because you already carry so much fear.” Angela looks down. “I didn’t want to become another thing you had to survive.”
Your chest twists hard.
“Angela.”
She looks up, and there are tears in her eyes now.
“I’m not asking because I need everyone to know our business,” she says. “I am asking because sometimes I want to say your name when people ask about my weekend. I want to say we tried a new restaurant or you made me watch a terrible reality show or we fought with the laundry machine again. I want to stop translating my life into something smaller.”
You reach for her hand.
She lets you.
The panic is still there, waiting at the edge of your ribs, but underneath it is something deeper. Seven years of Angela. Seven years of her choosing you in every quiet way. She has loved you through panic attacks, job stress, family drama, bad days, worse nights, and every locked door inside you. She has never asked you to become easy. She has only ever asked you to stay.
And now she is asking to be allowed to stand beside you where people can see.
“I want to do it for you,” you say.
Angela’s face crumples. “I don’t want you to suffer for me.”
“That is not what I mean.” You squeeze her hand. “I mean I want to try because you are the love of my life. Because you have made my world bigger without ever making me feel stupid for being scared of it. Because you deserve to be loved in more than one room.”
Angela makes a small sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
“I’m still terrified,” you add quickly.
“There you are.”
You laugh, even though your eyes are wet. “Very terrified. Orange-adjacent terrified.”
“Orange-adjacent,” she repeats, smiling through tears.
“If we do this, I need rules. I don’t edit the episode. I am not the thumbnail. If I say red, we stop. If the internet gets weird, we don’t read everything. And I reserve the right to hide in the bedroom for twelve hours afterward.”
Angela nods through every word. “Yes.”
“You didn’t even pretend to negotiate.”
“I’m not an idiot.”
You laugh again, and this time it feels more real.
Angela lifts your hand to her mouth and kisses your knuckles. “Thank you for considering it.”
“I’m doing more than considering it.”
Her eyes widen.
You swallow hard. “I will try.”
For a second, Angela just stares at you.
Then she launches herself into your arms with enough force to knock you sideways against the couch cushions.
“You are crushing me,” you say, muffled into her shoulder.
“Good.”
“Romantic.”
“Extremely.”
You hold her tighter anyway.
You are not suddenly brave. You are not suddenly ready. But Angela is warm in your arms, crying and laughing because you are trying.
For now, trying is enough.
Telling production is not as bad as you expect.
That almost makes it worse.
You already know the meeting is happening. You know the Pride schedule is being finalized. You know the couple’s competition is on the agenda. Still, walking into the conference room beside Angela makes every light feel too bright.
Chanse and Amanda are there with coffees. Shayne and Courtney sit across the table, relaxed and unaware. A few producers have laptops open. Angela takes your hand under the table, her thumb tapping once against your skin.
“Color?” She whispers.
You tap her hand twice.
Yellow.
When the couple’s competition comes up, Angela clears her throat.
“Actually,” she says, “we wanted to see if there was room for us to do it too.”
The room pauses.
Not badly. Just long enough for the words to land.
Amanda’s face lights up first. “Wait, really?”
Chanse grins. “Oh my god. Finally.” Then he turns to you quickly. “Not finally in a pushy way. Finally in a supportive, I am very happy for my friend and her extremely mysterious partner way.”
You look down, face burning.
Shayne’s eyebrows shoot up. “Wait. You two?”
Courtney looks between you and Angela, surprise melting into something bright and gentle. “Oh, that is so sweet.”
It hits you harder than you expect.
They didn’t know.
Most people don’t know.
Your relationship has been the center of your life for seven years, and to almost everyone in this room, it is brand-new information.
Angela squeezes your hand.
A producer starts typing. “We can make that work.”
You force yourself to speak before the room can move too fast.
“I have some boundaries.”
Everyone looks at you, and for one second your body begs you to disappear.
You don’t.
“I don’t want to edit the episode and I would rather not be used in the thumbnail. I know I’ll be in the video, obviously, but I also don’t want a close-up of my face as the main promotional image.” With a deep breath you finish “and if I need a break during filming, I need to be able to take one without it becoming a bit.”
Amanda nods immediately. “Completely fair.”
Chanse’s expression softens. “No making panic into content. Got it.”
Courtney says, “We can help keep the energy gentle.”
Shayne nods. “Whatever makes it safer.”
A producer adds notes. “We’ll assign the edit to someone else, keep the thumbnail focused on the game branding, and we can build in breaks.”
You blink.
That was it.
No argument. No teasing. No one calling you difficult.
Angela looks so proud you nearly slide under the table out of self-preservation.
After the meeting, Chanse catches you near the door.
“Hey,” he says, softer than usual. “I know this is a lot.”
You glance at him, already bracing for a joke, but his face is gentle.
“Angela’s talked about it before,” he adds quickly. “Not in a bad way. Just because she loves you, and because she knows being seen is hard for you.”
You nod, throat tight.
“I mostly know you through her,” Chanse says. “But for what it is worth, the version of you she talks about? The funny, weirdly thoughtful, scary-smart editor who notices everything? I would like to know that person too. At whatever pace doesn’t make you want to flee the country.”
A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it.
“That pace might be glacial.”
“I love a glacier. Very dramatic. Excellent branding.”
You smile, small but real.
“And during filming,” he adds, “if you need attention redirected, I can do that. I was born to become the loudest person in a room for no useful reason.”
“I know.”
“Great. Then we have a plan.”
You look down, overwhelmed by the kindness. “Thanks, Chanse.”
“Anytime.”
It helps more than you expect.
Shayne and Courtney come over three nights before filming.
Angela calls it casual. Pizza, wine, and a chance to talk through the format. You clean the apartment like they are coming to inspect your soul. You wipe counters that are already clean, rearrange the couch pillows twice, and move a stack of books from the coffee table to the bedroom, then back again because without them the room looks suspiciously empty.
Angela watches you alphabetize the coasters.
“You know there is no coaster alphabet, right?”
“There is now.”
“Color?”
You pause.
“Yellow.”
“Do you want help or space?”
You look at the coasters, then at her. “Help.”
Angela takes them gently from your hands and sets them down in a random pile.
You wince.
She kisses your cheek. “Exposure therapy.”
“I hate your methods.”
“But you love me.”
“Unfortunately.”
She smiles, but her eyes are soft.
When the doorbell rings, your whole body tightens.
Angela opens the door, and Shayne and Courtney come in with pizza, wine, and an ease you envy immediately. They fit together without trying too hard. Shayne carries the boxes. Courtney carries napkins and a tote bag of what they call “just in case comfort items,” which turns out to include sour candy, ginger ale, fidget toys, and one tiny plush frog.
“I didn’t know what your vibe was,” Courtney says, handing it to you. “So I brought options.”
You stare at the frog.
Shayne nods solemnly. “That is Gregory. He’s seen some things.”
You laugh, startled. “Thank you?”
“Strong start,” Angela says, grinning.
Everyone settles in the living room. Shayne and Courtney take the couch, comfortable but not showy. You and Angela sit in the armchair because she gently tugs you there before you can choose the farthest seat in the room. Her thigh presses against yours. Her hand rests open on her knee.
You take it.
Courtney notices and looks away before it can become A Moment.
You are grateful enough that your throat tightens.
“So,” Shayne says, opening a pizza box. “We are here as your emotional support guys.”
Courtney points at him. “And also as people who have been perceived online against our will.”
“That too.”
Angela laughs. You manage a smile.
Courtney looks at you. “Do you want us to walk through the format, or would that make it worse?”
“I already know the format.”
“Right. Editor brain.”
“I know the schedule, the call time, the likely runtime, and which parts are probably going to be cut for pacing.”
Shayne pauses with a slice halfway to his plate. “That is either very comforting or the worst possible curse.”
“The second one,” you say.
Courtney nods. “Because knowing gives you more details to panic with.”
You point at them. “Exactly.”
Angela rubs her thumb along yours.
Shayne leans forward. “Then maybe we don’t focus on the mechanics. Maybe we focus on what you are worried people will see.”
You stiffen.
Angela glances at you. “We don’t have to.”
“No,” you say, even though your heart has started knocking. “It’s okay.”
Courtney’s voice stays gentle. “Is it people seeing you with Angela? Or people seeing you at all?”
You think about lying.
Then you remember you are doing this because Angela is the love of your life, and loving her out loud means telling the truth even when your voice shakes.
“Both,” you say. “But mostly seeing me with her.”
Angela turns toward you.
“Not because I’m ashamed,” you add quickly.
“I know,” she says.
“I know you know. I just…” You press your thumb into the plush frog’s stupid little face. “Angela makes sense on camera. She is funny and expressive and open. People know how to watch her. I don’t know how to be watched. I freeze, and then I look cold, and then people will decide I don’t love her enough.”
Shayne’s expression softens.
Courtney nods slowly. “That is a very real fear.”
“I know we are different,” you say. “I know people will see that. Angela is Angela, and I’m… me.”
Angela’s voice is quiet. “You say that like being you is the disappointing part.”
Your chest pulls tight.
Shayne sets his plate down. “For an outside perspective?”
You look at him warily.
He continues carefully. “You and Angela are very different energy-wise. That’s obvious even just sitting here. But it doesn’t feel like a mismatch. It feels like balance.”
Courtney nods. “Angela fills a room. You notice the room. Those are not opposing things.”
“You have known me for twenty minutes,” you say, defensive because anything else might make you cry.
Courtney smiles. “Yes, and I have eyes.”
Shayne points toward the kitchen. “Also, the apartment says a lot.”
You glance over. “The apartment?”
“Yeah. There is one pair of shoes kicked off like someone entered dramatically, and one pair lined up neatly beside them. There are three water glasses on different surfaces, which I assume is Angela.”
“Rude but accurate,” Angela mutters.
“And there is a blanket folded over the couch but also clearly used,” Shayne continues. “There is a very organized stack of mail and one chaotic bowl of hair ties. It is not one person’s space. It is both of you compromising without making it a whole speech.”
Courtney smiles. “That is what people who care will see.”
You look down at your hands.
“And people who don’t care?” you ask.
Angela answers before they can. “They don’t get to matter more than us.”
The room goes quiet.
For once, silence doesn’t feel like danger.
Courtney reaches for a slice of pizza. “Can I ask how long you two have been together?”
“Seven years,” Angela says, at the same time you say, “A little over seven.”
Shayne grins. “Oh, that was couple behavior.”
You flush.
Angela bumps your shoulder. “We met before Smosh.”
“At a friend’s birthday thing,” you say. “I didn’t want to go.”
Angela snorts. “That is the opening sentence of your memoir.”
“I was there for twenty minutes and already looking for an exit.”
“You were standing in the kitchen judging the snacks.”
“I was assessing.”
“You told someone the salsa had bad energy.”
Shayne looks delighted. “Did it?”
“Yes,” you say.
Angela laughs. “I thought she was the funniest person I had ever met.”
“You thought I was rude.”
“I thought you were rude in a compelling way.”
Courtney grins. “That is romance.”
You find yourself smiling. Actually smiling. The kind that sneaks up before you can guard against it.
“What was the first date?” Courtney asks.
You and Angela look at each other.
“Technically coffee,” Angela says.
“Emotionally a grocery store,” you add.
Shayne sits up. “I need that explained immediately.”
Angela hides her face, already laughing.
“She asked if I wanted to hang out,” you say. “Then admitted she had errands. So we walked around a grocery store for an hour and a half while she bought cereal, toothpaste, and one single lemon.”
“The lemon was important.”
“You didn’t use it.”
“I had intentions.”
“It became a biohazard in your fridge.”
Angela points at you. “You were nervous too. You read the same pasta box for three minutes.”
“I didn’t know what to do with my hands.”
“So you held fusilli?”
“It was available.”
Everyone laughs, and this time you don’t feel like the joke has pulled you apart. It feels like memories being shared, like something private stepping into the light and surviving.
Angela looks at you like she can see the shift.
Like she knows you aren’t just tolerating this part.
You are enjoying it.
Courtney notices too. “You light up when you talk about your history.”
Your smile falters, but only a little.
“I like our history,” you say quietly. “It is the analyzing part I hate.”
“That makes sense,” Courtney says. “The history is yours. Analysis feels like it belongs to everyone else.”
You nod because yes. Exactly.
Angela squeezes your hand. “Our history is ours no matter what people say.”
You look at her, and for a second the room fades.
Seven years. Grocery-store dates. Tuesday pasta. Shared rent. Bad days. Good mornings. Angela’s cold feet tucked under your leg. Your hand finding hers in crowded places. Her learning every locked door inside you and knocking gently anyway.
“I am doing this because I love you,” you say. The words come out softer than you expect, but the room hears them. “Not because I suddenly want to be public. Not because I think I’ll be good at this. Because you are my person, and I don’t want fear to be the only thing making decisions for us.”
Angela’s eyes fill.
“Oh,” she whispers.
Shayne looks down at his plate, suddenly very interested in the pizza crust. Courtney’s expression softens into something almost protective.
Angela lifts your hand and kisses your knuckles. She does it like breathing, like it’s muscle memory.
You both realize at the same time that other people saw.
No one teases.
That makes it easier to let your hand stay in hers.
By the time Shayne and Courtney leave, you are exhausted, but not wrecked.
Courtney hugs you gently at the door. “You’re allowed to be scared and still want it.”
Shayne lifts the empty pizza box in salute. “Proud of you in advance.”
“That feels like cheating.”
“It is manifestation. Very different.”
When the door closes, Angela turns to you.
“Color?”
You think about it.
“Yellow,” you say. “But warmer.”
Angela smiles. “Warm yellow?”
“Like a lamp.”
She laughs and pulls you into her arms.
You let yourself be held.
Filming day arrives too quickly.
You barely sleep. Angela stays up with you until almost three, her hand moving in slow circles over your back while your mind rehearses disasters. By morning, your body feels like static with shoes on.
You know the call time. You know the set. You know the challenge order. You know there will be two main cameras, one wide, one roaming, plus crew. You know Chanse and Amanda are hosting. You know Shayne and Courtney are competing too.
Knowing doesn’t stop your hands from shaking.
The set is bright when you walk in. Pride flags, colorful balloons, glittery game board, ridiculous props, rainbow streamers on the monitor cart. It is cheerful in a way that almost makes you dizzy.
Amanda spots you first.
“There they are,” she says warmly. “Our brave little lovebirds.”
Chanse appears behind her. “I was told not to say lovebirds, but Amanda did it first, so legally I am free.”
“You are not,” Amanda says.
Angela laughs, and you manage to smile.
Courtney comes over with Shayne, both already mic’d.
“How are you feeling?” Courtney asks.
“Like I might pass away, but professionally.”
Shayne nods. “Very Smosh.”
That gets a real laugh out of you, which lowers your shoulders half an inch.
Then the mic pack goes on your waistband.
The panic sharpens.
You know the PA is only doing their job. You know the wire is normal. Still, the second it’s clipped under your shirt, you feel captured. Recordable. Permanent.
Angela steps closer. “Color?”
“Yellow,” you whisper.
She nods. “Okay. Yellow.”
Then Spencer calls for quiet.
Cameras roll.
Chanse turns toward the lens with a grin. “Welcome back to Smosh and welcome to our Pride Month couple’s competition, where we find out who communicates best, who knows each other best, and who is least likely to break up over a craft challenge.”
Amanda smiles. “Today we have Shayne and Courtney, who you know, love, and have probably already seen be very cute on the internet.”
Courtney waves. Shayne does a solemn thumbs-up.
“And,” Chanse continues, turning toward you and Angela, “we also have Angela and her partner, who some of you may not know because she has spent four years hiding in the edit bay like a very talented little cryptid.”
Your eyes widen.
Angela bursts out laughing.
Amanda points at Chanse. “That was affectionate.”
“Deeply affectionate,” Chanse says. “She is one of our editors, which means she is responsible for making many of us seem much funnier than we are.”
“That is true,” Angela says.
“Devastating,” Shayne says. “But fair.”
Amanda looks at her card. “Fun facts before we begin. Angela and her partner have been together for seven years.”
Courtney presses a hand to their chest. “Seven years is so cute.”
Your face heats.
“They met before Smosh at a birthday party,” Chanse says, “where, according to our notes, someone accused salsa of having bad energy.”
“That salsa did have bad energy,” you say.
The crew laughs.
Angela points at you. “I stand by her.”
Amanda continues, “They live together, have a sacred Tuesday pasta tradition, and Spork is in fact the only man of that house.”
You cover your face with one hand.
Angela is laughing too hard to defend herself.
“And,” Chanse adds, “we are all going to be very normal in the comments because our editor has requested emotional stability from the internet.”
The line is funny.
You laugh.
But it lands in your chest anyway.
Angela’s hand finds yours under the table.
Still yellow.
The first challenge is trivia.
You filled out the answers in advance, but when Amanda asks, “What is Angela’s coffee order?” your mind blanks.
The cameras feel enormous.
Angela bumps your shoulder. “You know this.”
You focus on her face.
“Iced oat milk latte with vanilla and an extra shot,” you say, “unless it is before ten, because iced coffee too early is emotionally aggressive.”
Angela bursts out laughing.
“That’s correct,” Amanda says. “And concerning.”
“It’s a real boundary,” Angela says.
Chanse reads the next card. “Angela, what is her favorite comfort meal?”
“Tuesday pasta,” Angela says immediately. “Garlic, butter, red sauce, too much parmesan, and the garlic bread she pretends is for both of us but mostly gets eaten standing at the counter.”
You gasp. “That’s private information.”
“That’s dinner.”
“That’s betrayal.”
Shayne laughs. “This is already my favorite couple dynamic.”
Your stomach flips, but Angela squeezes your hand.
Amanda asks, “What is Angela’s worst habit at home?”
You glance at Angela.
She narrows her eyes. “Careful.”
“You leave water glasses everywhere,” you say. “Every room. Every surface. It is like living with a very dehydrated ghost.”
Angela points at you. “I am a hydrated woman.”
“You are a woman with a trail.”
The crew laughs, and this time you laugh too.
Chanse reads another. “Angela, what is one thing she does when she is anxious?”
Angela’s smile softens.
“She cleans,” she says. “Or reorganizes things that don’t need reorganizing. Coasters. Books. The silverware drawer. Sometimes she narrates what she’s doing like she’s not panicking, just suddenly passionate about spoon placement.”
You look down, embarrassed but warm.
“And if it is bad,” Angela adds, “she gets quiet. Far away quiet.”
Amanda’s voice softens. “Point for Angela.”
Chanse asks, “What is the first thing Angela ever bought you?”
“A mug,” you answer instantly. “Blue. From a thrift store. It had a chip in the handle and a duck painted on it.”
Angela stares. “You remember that?”
“You said it had my energy.”
“It did.”
“It was a duck.”
“A judgmental duck.”
You smile. “I still have it.”
Angela looks like she might melt under the studio lights.
A few more questions move quickly. First trip together. Favorite movie. Who steals blankets. Who apologizes first after a fight.
“You,” Angela says.
“I do?”
“Not always with words. Sometimes you just bring me tea and sit closer than usual.”
Your throat tightens.
“Oh.”
Chanse glances at the card in his hand. “Angela, what is one thing your partner does at work that nobody notices?”
Angela’s expression changes.
“She notices everything,” she says. “She acts like she's not paying attention, but she knows everyone’s schedule, who is stressed, which edits need extra care, when someone had a rough shoot. She doesn’t always join the group, but she's always looking out for the work and the people in it.”
The room goes quiet in a gentle way.
You stare at her.
For years, you thought nobody saw that. You thought they saw the headphones, the closed door, the early exits. You thought Angela was the only one who knew there was more to you than silence.
Angela reaches for your hand under the table.
“She's quieter than me,” she says. “Obviously. Most people are. But quiet doesn’t mean absent.”
Your eyes sting.
Amanda presses a hand to her chest. “That was really sweet.”
Angela laughs softly. “Sorry. Too sincere?”
“No,” you say before you can overthink it. “It was nice.”
Angela looks at you like you have given her something.
Then the director calls for a reset.
Normal. You know it is normal. They adjust angles all the time.
But then someone asks you and Angela to repeat the last answer.
Just the sweet part.
Just for coverage.
Your stomach drops.
Repeat the vulnerability.
Perform the sincerity.
Make the private thing usable.
Angela starts to answer again, but your ears fill with static. The lights seem too sharp. The mic wire scratches under your shirt. You can see the lens pointed at you, waiting for your reaction. You are touched by Angela’s words, overwhelmed by them, but now your face feels like something being harvested.
You pull your hand away.
Angela stops immediately.
“Color?”
You try to say yellow.
Nothing comes out.
Her expression changes.
“Red?”
You nod.
Everything stops.
Angela turns toward the director. “We need a break.”
No one argues.
Chanse steps in, voice bright and controlled. “Great time to hydrate. Amanda, quick legal question, is the prop candy food or decor?”
Amanda picks it up instantly. “Emotionally, decor. Legally, unclear.”
The room shifts around you, but Angela is already guiding you off set. She takes you into a small empty room down the hall, one of those half-storage, half-meeting rooms with a spare chair, a stack of boxes, and a sad little lamp.
The door closes.
The quiet hits.
Your breath breaks.
“I’m sorry,” you gasp.
“No.” Angela’s voice is firm. “Red means stop. You did exactly what you were supposed to do.”
“I ruined it.”
“You didn’t ruin anything.”
“I couldn’t even sit there while you said something nice about me.”
Angela kneels in front of you. You don’t remember sitting down, but she’s looking up at you now, hands hovering near your knees.
“Can I touch you?”
You nod, crying too hard to answer.
She takes your hands. “Look at me.”
You try.
“There you are,” she whispers. “Stay with me.”
“I could feel them waiting for my face,” you say. “Like they needed the right reaction. I know that is how filming works, but it felt like they were trying to capture something that belongs to us.”
Angela’s face crumples.
“Oh, baby.”
“I want people to know I love you,” you say. “I do. I want that for you. But I don’t want every part of that love turned into something people can pause and discuss.”
Angela squeezes your hands. “I know.”
“I’m trying so hard.” Your voice breaks. “But I can already hear them. That I’m awkward. That I don’t look happy enough. That you’re carrying me. That you deserve someone who can smile normally when you say something sweet.”
“Listen to me.” Angela’s voice shakes, but she keeps it steady. “No comment section gets to decide what our love looks like.”
You shake your head.
“They don’t know us,” she continues. “They don’t know seven years. They don’t know the grocery store date or Tuesday pasta or the duck mug. They don’t know you sit in the car outside my auditions because you know I’m nervous even when I pretend I’m not. They don’t know how you love me.”
Your breathing stutters.
“I know,” Angela says. “I know when you wash my favorite hoodie before a hard shoot. I know when you pretend to be asleep but still reach for my hand. I know when you memorize my schedule and act like it’s just because you’re organized. I know you love me. I don’t need the internet to understand it for it to be real.”
Your face crumples.
Angela pulls you into her arms, and you fold into her. She holds you tightly, one hand at the back of your head.
“I want to be easier,” you whisper.
“I don’t want it to be easier.” Her lips press against your hair. “I want you.”
The words go right through you.
For a while, you cry into her shirt while the studio hums on the other side of the wall. Angela doesn’t rush you. She doesn’t ask if you are ready before you have remembered how to breathe.
Eventually, she murmurs, “Color?”
You take stock of yourself.
“Orange,” you say. “Maybe yellow-orange.”
“Okay. We can work with yellow-orange.”
“What if I can’t go back?”
“Then we go home.”
“But the video.”
“Is not the love of my life,” Angela says. “You are.”
You look at her.
She smiles through tears. “That seemed worth clarifying.”
You laugh weakly, and something inside you loosens.
“I think I can go back,” you say. “But I don’t want to redo that answer.”
“Then we won't.”
“And if something else happens?”
“Red stops it.”
You nod.
Angela kisses your forehead. “I’m proud of you.”
“I panicked.”
“You used the system. You let me help. You’re still here.” She squeezes your hands. “That’s not nothing.”
When you return to the set, nobody makes it weird.
Amanda gives you a small thumbs-up. Chanse is mid-argument with Shayne about whether candy can expire emotionally. Courtney smiles at you gently, not with pity, just recognition.
The director says, “We are good to move on. No need to repeat anything.”
Your shoulders drop.
Angela’s hand finds yours again.
“Yellow?” she asks quietly.
You breathe.
“Yellow.”
The rest of filming is still hard.
But not impossible.
The cooking challenge is ridiculous. Blindfolded sandwich-making. Angela guides you while you poke suspiciously at ingredients.
“Bread is in front of you.”
“This feels like lettuce.”
“That’s bread.”
“This is wet.”
“That’s tomato. Please don’t panic at the tomato.”
“I am really opposed to wet bread.”
Chanse wheezes off-camera.
The charades challenge is worse, but Amanda keeps it light. Your card says movie night, and after several seconds of frozen panic, you mime holding popcorn. Angela guesses it immediately.
“You make that exact face when you are deciding whether a movie is worth pausing for snacks,” she says.
Courtney points at you both. “That is couple telepathy.”
The craft challenge ends up easier than expected. Angela draws a couch, a bowl of pasta, and two stick figures under a lopsided disco ball. You add a computer monitor, tiny headphones, and speech bubbles.
Angelas says, Come outside!
Yours says, No thank you!
The crew laughs.
For once, you don’t mind.
Then comes the trust fall.
Of course.
Amanda explains it brightly. “One partner will be blindfolded and fall backward. The other catches them. Simple, symbolic, dramatic.”
“Who approved this?” you mutter.
Chanse raises his hand. “For growth.”
“I’m suing you.”
“Understandable.”
You’re the one falling. Angela stands behind you. The blindfold goes on, and the room disappears.
Not seeing the cameras should help.
It doesn't.
Now you can hear everything. Shoes. Equipment. The soft hum of lights. Your own breathing, shallow and quick.
Angela’s voice comes from behind you.
“I’ve got you.”
“I know,” you say, though your voice shakes.
“No,” she says softly. “Listen to me. You don’t have to fall pretty. You don’t have to look brave. You just have to trust that I’m here.”
Your eyes sting behind the blindfold.
“Yellow.”
“Okay,” Angela says. “We can stay yellow and still do it.”
You breathe in.
Out.
Then you let yourself fall.
For one awful second, there is nothing under you.
Then Angela catches you.
Solid. Warm. Laughing with relief.
The crew cheers. Amanda claps. Chanse yells, “That was cinema!” and someone calls cut.
You pull the blindfold off with shaking hands.
Angela is still holding you.
“See?” she says, smiling so wide it almost hurts to look at. “I had you.”
You are still scared. Still aware of every camera, every person, every future viewer.
But you did it.
You fell, and she caught you.
So you kiss her.
Not because you forgot the cameras.
Because you didn’t.
Because you know they’re there, and you choose her anyway.
When you pull back, Angela’s eyes are bright.
“Was that okay?” you ask quietly.
“That was perfect,” she says.
For one second, you believe her.
The video goes live two weeks later.
You already know there’s discourse before you watch it.
Smosh fans are fast. Someone clips the intro within twenty minutes. Someone posts screenshots of you and Angela holding hands. There is already a Reddit thread with your name in the title, which feels illegal even though it’s not.
The intro makes it worse because it gives people details.
Editor.
Four years at Smosh.
Seven years with Angela.
Birthday party.
Tuesday pasta.
Duck mug.
Quiet partner.
Suddenly, strangers have enough information to build a version of you.
Angela offers to take your phone.
You say no.
Then you refresh comments for thirty minutes and nearly cry into your cereal.
By the time you and Angela sit on the couch with the laptop between you, your whole body feels scraped raw.
“Color?” Angela asks.
“Orange.”
“Do you want to wait?”
“No.” Your voice shakes. “If people are talking about it, I need to know what they’re talking about.”
Angela doesn’t argue. She takes your hand.
“Okay. We watch it together.”
The first few minutes are hard. You look nervous. Your shoulders are tense. Your smile is careful. You cringe when Chanse calls you a talented little cryptid, even though the line gets a laugh and you know he meant it affectionately.
Then the fun facts start, and you can almost feel the internet grabbing each one.
As the video continues, something shifts.
You are anxious, yes. Anyone can see that. But you are also laughing. Teasing Angela. Getting answers right. Letting her touch your hand. You’re not smooth or polished or effortlessly open, but you are there.
Trying.
The red moment is mostly gone. There is a clean cut between trivia and cooking, maybe a slightly abrupt transition if someone is looking for it. You know what happened there, though. You remember the little room. Angela’s hands around yours. Her voice telling you the internet didn’t get to define how you loved her.
The trust fall looks better than it felt. You can see the fear on your face when the blindfold comes off, but you can also see Angela’s arms around you. You can see the kiss. You can see yourself choosing not to run.
Then you open the comments.
Angela winces. “Maybe don’t.”
“I have to.”
Some are kind.
Angela and her partner are adorable.
The seven years thing made me emotional.
I love seeing a quieter couple dynamic.
The duck mug story killed me.
The trust fall kiss? I am unwell.
Some are not.
She seemed uncomfortable.
Angela carried the whole video.
The energy difference is kind of awkward.
Why did it feel like her partner didn’t want to be there?
I don’t know, they seem mismatched.
Then come the arguments.
Can we not psychoanalyze a non-cast employee based on one video?
If they didn’t want people commenting, why go on camera?
Maybe because they love Angela and wanted to support her?
The vibe was off.
The vibe was introvert dating extrovert. Please go outside.
Angela deserves someone who matches her energy.
Angela has been with her for seven years. I think she knows what she wants.
This felt like a private person trying really hard, and that’s actually beautiful.
Or maybe Smosh shouldn’t put behind-the-scenes staff on camera if they are visibly anxious.
The intro literally explained she avoids camera stuff. Why are people acting shocked?
Can fans stop turning queer couples into debate topics for five seconds?
Each defense becomes another mention of you. Each argument turns your relationship into something people can use to make a point.
Someone makes a TikTok using the trust fall clip with soft music.
Someone stitches it and says people are romanticizing obvious discomfort.
Someone posts a screenshot of you looking tense during the intro with the caption: when your extrovert girlfriend drags you into Pride content.
Someone replies: or when you love someone enough to do something terrifying.
It is too much.
The kindness. The criticism. The defending. The speculation. Even people trying to protect you are still talking about you.
Your breathing changes.
Angela closes the laptop before you can ask.
“Orange?” she asks.
You shake your head. “Almost red.”
“Okay.” She moves the laptop to the coffee table. “No more.”
“They are arguing about us.”
“I know.”
“Even the nice ones.”
“I know.”
“I thought the bad comments would be the worst part.” You wipe your face angrily. “But all of it is hard. Even people defending me are still making me into a topic.”
Angela sits with that. She doesn’t rush to fix it.
Then she says, “Do you want to know what I saw?”
You look at her.
“In the video,” she says. “Not the comments.”
After a second, you nod.
“I saw you scared,” Angela says. “I saw you stay. I saw you laugh for real. I saw you trust me. I saw you talk about our life like it mattered. I saw the person I love doing something incredibly hard because they love me back.”
Your chest aches.
“And I saw the comments,” she admits. “Some made me mad. Some made me want to throw your laptop into the ocean. Some were sweet. But none of them changed what I know.”
“What do you know?”
Angela squeezes your hand.
“That I’m loved,” she says. “By you. In the quiet, stubborn, Tuesday-pasta, duck-mug, emotionally-opposed-to-wet-bread way that is completely ours.”
A laugh breaks out of you, watery and helpless.
Your phone buzzes.
Amanda sends hearts and says she is proud of you. Courtney says the trust fall made them tear up. Spencer says he had no idea you were that funny. Arasha writes, Seven years and nobody told me? Is this another prank? Rude but adorable.
Then Chanse texts.
Just watched. You were great. Also, your dry delivery is deeply underutilized. Angela’s been hiding a comedic weapon.
A second message follows.
Also proud of you. I know that was a lot.
You stare at the screen.
“They’re being nice,” you say.
Angela smiles. “Because they like you.”
“They barely know me.”
“Maybe they would like to.”
That thought is terrifying.
It is also not as awful as it used to be.
Monday morning is hard.
You almost call in sick. You make it all the way to your car, then sit gripping the steering wheel while your brain insists everyone will stare.
Some people do.
Most just smile.
Arasha catches you near the front with coffee in hand.
“Hey,” she says. “Great video.”
Your heart leaps into your throat. “Thanks.”
“And for the record, Angela leaving water glasses everywhere makes so much sense.”
Despite yourself, you laugh.
Arasha grins and keeps walking.
That is it.
No interrogation. No spotlight.
At ten, Chanse knocks on your edit bay door.
You freeze, even though some part of you knows Chanse is safe.
“Come in.”
He opens the door just enough to peek in. “I come in peace.”
“That sounds fake.”
“It is. I also come with praise.” He smiles. “You were really good.”
“I was anxious.”
“Yeah,” he says. “And funny. And sweet with Angela. Multiple things can be true.”
You don’t know what to do with that.
Chanse leans against the doorframe, careful not to fully enter unless invited. “For what it’s worth, I know I’ve known about you two for a long time, but seeing you together was different. Not just Angela’s mysterious partner I hear stories about. You.”
Your chest tightens, but not in the same terrible way.
“That’s the part I’m scared of,” you admit.
“Being you where people can see?”
You nod.
“Yeah,” he says. “That makes sense. But nobody is asking you to become Angela. God help us, one Angela is already a lot.”
You laugh.
“You can still be quiet,” Chanse says. “You can still hide in here when you need to. People knowing you love Angela doesn’t mean they get unlimited access to you.”
You look at him, surprised by how directly he understands.
He shrugs. “I listen sometimes. Don't let that get out. My reputation would never recover.”
He taps the doorframe. “Seriously, though. Proud of you. And if anyone bugs you too much, tell me. I’ll distract them with a bit so long and confusing they forget why they came over.”
“Thanks, Chanse.”
“Anytime.”
More people mention the video throughout the day. Amanda hugs you, but keeps it brief. Shayne high-fives you. Courtney tells you they are proud of you. Spencer says you and Angela were really sweet together, then actually lets you get back to work. Tommy appears later just to say the duck mug deserves a spinoff.
Everyone is kind.
It’s still exhausting.
By lunch, the discourse has grown again. People debating whether fans should speculate on non-cast partners. People praising the video for showing different kinds of queer relationships. People arguing about whether anxiety should have been edited out more. People using words like representation and chemistry and consent and awkwardness like they are talking about a movie instead of your life.
You don’t open the threads at work.
That feels like growth.
By the time you get home, you feel wrung out.
Angela is on the couch, and the second she sees your face, she opens her arms.
You drop into them.
“How was it?” she asks.
“Good,” you say. “And awful. But mostly good.”
“That sounds about right.”
“People were nice.”
“But?”
“But it is different now.” You breathe into her shoulder. “People know things. They talk to me more. Online, they talk about us like they know us. I knew that would happen, but knowing didn’t make it less weird.”
Angela kisses the top of your head. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m not.” You pull back enough to look at her. “I’m anxious. Very anxious. But I’m not sorry.”
Her eyes soften.
“I still need privacy,” you say. “I still need quiet. I’m not suddenly going to be in every video or go to every hangout.”
“I know.”
“And I need boundaries with the internet. I can’t read everything. I can’t turn myself into whatever version of me they like best.”
“No,” Angela says. “You shouldn’t have to.”
You take her hand.
“I think I can let people know us a little,” you say. “But I don’t want to hand them all of us.”
Angela smiles. “That sounds fair.”
“And maybe,” you add, voice quieter, “I can stop assuming that everyone who tries to know me is dangerous.”
“That sounds like a good start.”
“A terrifying start.”
“Still a start.”
Three weeks later, you and Angela stand near the edge of the Pride parade route.
The crowd is huge. Music, flags, glitter, laughter, bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder. Your heart races. Your palms sweat. Every instinct tells you to go home.
Angela watches your face. “Color?”
“Yellow,” you say. Then, because honesty has started to feel less like failure, “With orange edges.”
“We can leave.”
You believe her.
That helps.
“I know,” you say. “I want to stay for a little bit.”
“You sure?”
“No.” You take her hand. “But I want to try.”
She smiles. “Okay. We try.”
You don’t stay long. Less than an hour. You find a spot near the back where you can see without feeling trapped. Angela cheers when a float goes by. You laugh when a drag queen points at her and yells, “I love your energy!” because of course Angela would get personally acknowledged in a crowd of thousands.
A few people recognize her.
One recognizes you too.
Your stomach drops when they glance between you and Angela.
“I loved the video,” they say. “You two were really sweet.”
You freeze.
Angela’s hand tightens around yours, grounding but not answering for you.
“Thank you,” you manage.
The person smiles and moves on.
That’s it.
No interrogation. No demand. No ownership.
Your heart still pounds like you ran a mile.
Angela leans close. “Color?”
“Orange,” you whisper. “But not red.”
“Okay.”
You stay ten more minutes.
That feels like a victory.
When it gets too loud, Angela leads you back to the car without making you ask twice.
On the walk back, your hands are still shaking, but your chest feels lighter than you expected.
“I’m proud of you,” Angela says.
“I didn’t do much.”
“You came.”
You look at her. “I came.”
It’s small.
It’s huge.
At the car, Angela leans against the passenger door, still holding your hand.
“I’m not going to become a public person,” you say.
“I know.”
“I’m still going to need quiet. Boundaries. Warning before cameras. Possibly a dramatic amount of alone time.”
“Noted.”
“But I don’t want to hide us anymore,” you say. “Not completely. I don’t want fear to be the only thing making decisions.”
Angela’s eyes shine. “That means a lot.”
“You mean a lot.”
She laughs, watery and bright, then pulls you into a hug.
For a long moment, you just hold each other while Pride echoes a few blocks away.
You aren’t suddenly fearless. You aren’t suddenly comfortable being watched, known, discussed, clipped, posted, or misunderstood.
But you are learning that visibility doesn’t have to mean losing yourself.
It can have limits.
It can have boundaries.
It can be one video, one conversation, one hour at Pride, one hand held in public before going home to the quiet.
You aren’t Angela.
You aren’t Shayne and Courtney.
You are you.
Anxious, private, careful, trying.
And Angela loves you there too.
As you drive home together, her hand resting over yours on the center console, you realize that being brave doesn’t feel like confidence.
Most of the time, it feels like panic.
But sometimes, if you are lucky, it also feels like Angela asking your color and staying when the answer is red.
Sometimes it feels like choosing to fall.
Sometimes it feels like being caught.
And sometimes, quietly, imperfectly, it feels like love.
Summary: Pride at Smosh is about more than just Rainbow and Glitter.
Word Count: 4.2k
Warnings: no use of Y/N
A/N: Hello everyone! Happy Pride! I am hoping to write a fic a day for Pride Month, so if you have any ideas for any of the people I write for, or even someone new, send them my way!
Masterlist
The Smosh office had never looked more ready for Pride Month. Rainbow streamers hung from the ceiling in bright loops, flags covered the walls, and a disco ball spun lazily above the open workspace, scattering little patches of light across desks, cameras, and half-empty coffee cups. Someone had set out rainbow popcorn, cupcakes with too much frosting, and a bowl of candy that Tommy had already declared "emotionally necessary."
It was the first Friday of June, and the whole room buzzed with the kind of joy that made even the most ordinary office corner feel like a dance floor.
"This is incredible!" Tommy shouted over the music, spinning with both arms stretched out like he was personally responsible for the disco ball.
"Careful," Angela called. "If you hit a wall, we are not making Pride Month about your concussion."
Tommy pointed at her mid-spin. "Now that is homophobic."
You laughed from your spot near the snack table, watching the chaos unfold with a warmth that settled deep in your chest. Damien had spent over a week building the playlist, which meant every song somehow felt both dramatic and perfectly timed. Shayne had pulled Courtney into an exaggerated dance move that was either a dip or a workplace safety violation. Ian, well, Ian was moving around the room with a soft smile, making sure everyone had food, water, and a reason to feel welcome.
Smosh had been a workplace once. At some point, without anyone announcing it, it had become something closer to home.
You loved that about it. You loved the way this group celebrated loudly and cared quietly. You loved that Pride here was not treated like a marketing idea or a theme party that disappeared when the lights went off. It felt real because the people were real. Messy, funny, sincere, exhausted, glitter-covered, and trying their best.
Still, every once in a while, the celebration tugged at something tender in you.
It was not sadness exactly. It was more like an old bruise you forgot about until something brushed against it. You had come out young, younger than many around you. You had known yourself early, even when you didn’t yet have all the words for it. But your dad died when you were young, before you ever got the chance to tell him. That loss had left a quiet space inside you, one you rarely talked about.
Maybe that was why you had become so good at listening. Maybe it was why people trusted you with the things they were still learning how to say. You liked being that person. You were proud to be that person.
You were also starting to wonder if being everyone's safe place had made it harder to imagine being someone's first choice.
"You good?" Angela asked, appearing beside you and reaching for a handful of rainbow popcorn.
"Yeah," you said, smiling because you meant it. Mostly. "Just taking it all in."
Angela looked around the room, her expression softening. "It is kind of a lot. In a good way."
"The best kind of a lot."
Across the room, Spencer glanced over from where he was helping Amanda rescue a strand of lights from a filing cabinet. He caught your eye, smiled, and lifted one hand in a small wave. It was nothing big. Just Spencer being Spencer. But the smile stayed with you longer than you expected.
The party lasted until nearly midnight. By then, the music had softened, the cupcakes had been reduced to crumbs, and the glitter had begun its lifelong mission to never leave the carpet. People drifted out in pairs and small groups, still laughing as they gathered their bags.
You stayed behind to help clean up. Damien packed the speaker system. Ian collected cups. Courtney stood on a chair, carefully deciding which decorations could stay up for the rest of the month.
"The flags stay," Courtney announced.
"The flags absolutely stay," Ian said.
Courtney smiled, but it came with a quieter edge than the one they had worn all night. After a moment, they climbed down and glanced toward the hallway.
"I think I'm going to get some air. Rooftop?"
You met their eyes. "Want company?"
Her smile warmed. "Always."
The Los Angeles night was gentle, the kind of warm that made the city feel softer from above. Streetlights stretched below you like a second sky, and the distant sound of traffic hummed under the quiet.
Courtney leaned against the rooftop railing, twisting the cap off a water bottle. You stood beside them, giving them the space to find whatever words had followed them up here.
"That was a good party," you said.
"It was," Courtney said. "Like, genuinely. Ridiculously good. Tommy almost took out a chair, Shayne suddenly thinks he can dance now, and I got to keep the flags up. Huge night."
You grinned. "Historic, honestly."
Courtney laughed, then let the sound fade. For a few seconds, they watched the city instead of speaking.
"I love Pride," she said finally. "I really do. I love the colors, the noise, and the way everyone gets to be so openly themselves. But every June, I still feel this little weight under all of it."
You turned toward her fully.
"I think about all the years before I came out," Courtney continued. "The ones where I watched Pride from the sidelines and pretended it was not for me yet. I was happy for other people, but I also felt like I was looking through a window at something I wanted to be part of."
"And now?" you asked gently.
"Now I am part of it," they said, smiling a little. "I know that. I feel that. I have all of you. I have Shayne, who loves me exactly as I am. I have a life I didn’t always think I would get."
Their voice wavered, and you waited.
"But sometimes the scared kid version of me still shows up," Courtney admitted. "Not all the time. Just enough to remind me that getting here took something."
You reached over and took their hand. "I think Pride can be both. The joy and the memory. The party and the reason we needed the party in the first place."
Courtney looked at you, eyes shining. "That was annoyingly beautiful."
"Thank you. I try to be emotionally useful and mildly irritating."
She laughed, wiping under one eye. "You're very good at both."
The two of you stood shoulder to shoulder, hands linked between you. The city glittered below, and for once the quiet did not feel like something to fill. It felt like something you could rest inside.
After a while, you heard yourself say, "Can I tell you something?"
Courtney turned immediately. "Of course."
You took a breath. The words weren’t new, but saying them out loud still made your chest tighten.
"I came out really young. I knew who I was, even if I didn’t always know how to explain it. But then my dad died before I could tell him." You looked out at the lights, letting them blur a little. "I think that changed the way I learned to love people. I became good at listening. Good at making space. Good at being the person people could come to."
"You are good at that," Courtney said softly, reassuringly.
"I like being that," you said. "I love being trusted. I love being part of this group. But sometimes I worry that I have gotten so used to being the supportive one that no one thinks to see me any other way."
Courtney's thumb brushed over the back of your hand.
"Sometimes I wonder if I will always be the friend people lean on," you admitted. "The person who helps everyone else feel brave. And I know that’s not a small thing. I know it matters. But I still want to be chosen. Not by a whole room. By one person. In a way that feels like home."
Courtney pulled you into a hug before you could say anything else. You let yourself be held, and the simple act of it made your throat ache.
"You are not just support," they whispered. "You are funny and stubborn and thoughtful and wildly bad at accepting compliments. You deserve every kind of love, including the kind that makes you nervous."
You laughed into their shoulder. "That sounds horrible."
"Terrifying," Courtney agreed. "But probably worth it."
You stayed on the rooftop longer than you meant to, talking about first crushes, awkward coming out moments, chosen family, and all the different ways people learn how to be brave. When you finally went back downstairs, you didn’t feel fixed. You didn’t need to.
You just felt a little less alone with the thought.
Week two was louder, brighter, and somehow involved more glitter than the first week, which should have been physically impossible.
The office had been transformed into a makeshift club for drag performances and dancing. Spencer had been appointed MC, mostly because he had made one sarcastic comment about having stage presence and everyone had decided to hold him to it.
"Welcome, icons, legends, and people who were promised snacks," Spencer announced into the microphone. "Tonight, we honor Pride, performance, and the fact that HR has not stopped us yet."
The room erupted.
Shayne's lip sync to a Britney Spears medley nearly ended the night from sheer secondhand joy. He committed with his entire body, including choreography that was clearly learned from the internet and perfected through confidence alone. Courtney cheered louder than anyone, one hand pressed to their chest like they were watching him win an Olympic medal.
You laughed until your sides hurt. It was impossible not to. Shayne was ridiculous, Courtney was glowing, Tommy was screaming every lyric like a sports commentator, and Amanda had somehow become the unofficial judge despite no one asking her.
The ache in you still appeared now and then, but it didn’t swallow the room. You let yourself enjoy things. You let yourself clap too loud. You let yourself be silly when Angela dragged you into a dance circle, and Chance shouted encouragement like you were training for a championship.
At one point, Spencer passed behind you and leaned close enough to be heard over the music.
"For the record," he said, "your footwork is bold."
"That sounds like an insult with a sugar coating."
"It is a compliment with some concerns."
You laughed, and Spencer grinned like he had accomplished exactly what he meant to.
Later, after the music faded and the last of the glitter settled into the floor forever, you found Shayne in the break room with a cup of water and a smear of silver sparkle still stuck to his cheek.
"Do you want coffee, water, or Tylenol?" you asked.
"Yes," Shayne said.
You made him coffee first and sat across from him. The break room was quiet after the office chaos, the kind of quiet that made conversations feel easier.
"Tonight was fun," Shayne said, wrapping his hands around the mug.
"You say that like you didn’t almost reinvent dance as a concept."
"I gave the people what they did not ask for."
You smiled. "Very brave."
Shayne chuckled, then grew thoughtful. "I have been thinking a lot this month. About what it means to show up for someone. Not just in the easy, loud, fun moments, but in the quieter ones too."
You knew he was talking about Courtney before he said their name.
"Courtney is so open now," he continued. "But I know there were years when that was not easy for her. Sometimes I worry that I will miss something. That I will think being supportive means cheering at the party, when sometimes it means noticing when they need to leave the party."
There was such love in his voice that it softened something in you instead of sharpening it.
"The fact that you are thinking about that matters," you said. "You do show up for them, Shayne. Not perfectly, because nobody does anything perfectly, but honestly. That counts for a lot."
He nodded, quiet for a moment. "Thanks. And not just for this. For always making room for these conversations."
There it was again. Always. The word could have felt heavy, but tonight it felt a little different. Maybe because of Courtney. Maybe because of the rooftop. Maybe because Spencer had just walked past the break room doorway, noticed the empty snack wrapper beside your elbow, and silently tossed you a granola bar with a look that said he knew you had forgotten to eat dinner.
You caught it against your chest, surprised.
Shayne blinked. "Did Spencer just snack-assist you?"
You looked down at the granola bar. "Apparently."
"Interesting."
"Do not make that face."
"I am not making a face. This is my neutral face."
"Your neutral face is suspicious."
Shayne smiled into his coffee, and for once, you did not rush to explain the warmth rising in your cheeks.
By week three, Pride Month had become more reflective. The event was called Stories and Solidarity Night, which sounded very formal until Tommy opened by saying, "Welcome to feelings, but with snacks."
There was an open mic, a row of chairs, and a table covered in tea, cookies, and tissues that everyone joked about but eventually used.
Tommy talked about finding community online before he found it in person. Spencer shared a short, thoughtful piece about allyship and learning when to speak and when to shut up, which earned him both applause and a very loud "growth!" from Angela. Amanda told a story about chosen family that made half the room tear up and the other half pretend they weren't.
When Courtney took the mic, they looked nervous for half a second. Then their eyes found you in the crowd, and they smiled.
They talked about the rooftop. Not every detail, not the pieces that belonged only to you, but enough. They talked about joy and memory. About the younger version of them who had watched Pride from a distance. About the comfort of realizing they were not on the outside anymore.
"Sometimes," Courtney said, her voice steady, "Pride is loud music and ridiculous dancing. Sometimes it is someone sitting next to you in the quiet and reminding you that you made it here. I am really grateful for both."
The room applauded. You clapped hard, proud of them in that full, uncomplicated way that felt easy.
Afterward, a smaller group ended up at your apartment. It happened the way these things always did, with someone saying they were not ready to go home yet and someone else saying you had the best balcony. Soon Ian, Angela, Spencer, Chance, and Amanda were scattered around your balcony with sodas, takeout, and the leftover cookies from the event.
The night air was cool enough to make everyone lean closer together.
"I've been thinking," Ian said.
Angela immediately pointed at him. "Dangerous start."
"Fair," Ian said, laughing. "But I have. About what Pride means after the decorations come down."
"Community," Amanda said.
"Accountability," Chance added.
"Snacks," Tommy called from inside, even though he was not technically part of the balcony conversation.
"All important," Ian said. "But I think it is also consistency. Showing people they are safe with you in June, and then proving it again in July. And August. And every ordinary day after that."
You leaned against the railing, touched by the simplicity of it. "I like that. Pride as a promise you keep making."
Spencer looked over at you. "That is a good line."
"Do not sound so surprised."
"I am constantly surprised by you," he said, then seemed to realize how sincere that sounded and cleared his throat. "In a respectful and completely normal way."
Angela's eyes darted between you, bright with interest.
"No," you said before she could speak.
"I didn’t say anything."
"Your eyebrows did."
The conversation kept flowing, lighter than you expected for a night built around serious stories. You talked about first Pride memories, bad fashion choices, the comfort of labels, the freedom to change them, and the fact that nobody could agree on how many rainbow cupcakes were too many.
When people started leaving, Angela hugged you at the door.
"Thanks for hosting," she said. "And for being you."
This time, instead of brushing off the compliment, you let it land.
"Thanks for coming," you said.
Spencer was the last to leave. He lingered by the door, holding his jacket in both hands.
"Tonight was good," he said.
"It was."
"You seemed happy."
The comment caught you off guard, not because it was strange, but because he had noticed.
"I was," you said. "I am."
His smile was small, but real. "Good. You deserve that."
Then he left before you could decide how to respond, leaving you in the quiet apartment with a sink full of cups and a smile you could not quite talk yourself out of.
The final week of Pride brought a different kind of celebration.
Instead of another party in the office, Ian had found a small garden venue tucked away from the noise of the city. String lights crisscrossed overhead, flowers lined the edges of the patio, and the air smelled like jasmine, citrus, and summer. Comfortable chairs were arranged in little clusters, close enough for conversation but spread out enough that no one had to worry about talking over one another.
It was smaller than the other nights. Just the people you were closest to. Courtney and Shayne shared a loveseat near the flowers, their hands loosely intertwined. Damien helped Ian test the speaker, which played soft music instead of dance tracks. Amanda and Chance were debating whether the tiny sandwiches counted as dinner. Tommy had already decided they did.
Spencer stood near one of the light posts, fixing a strand that had slipped out of place. When he saw you arrive, his face brightened.
"Hey," he said, stepping down from the low chair he had definitely not been using as a ladder.
"That looked very safe."
"I lived, which makes it fine."
You shook your head, smiling. "Not how safety works."
"That's why I am not in charge of safety."
The evening unfolded gently. Courtney hugged you for a long time and whispered, "Thank you for this month," like you had personally built June with your own hands. Shayne made you laugh by insisting his Britney performance had changed the culture. Damien sat beside you for a while and talked about how much it meant to have a space where nobody had to shrink themselves.
Angela raised her glass at you from across the garden in a silent toast.
You felt loved. Not perfectly, not in a way that erased every fear, but truly.
For the first time all month, that felt like something you could trust.
As the sky darkened, Ian suggested everyone share one thing they were taking from Pride Month into the rest of the year. The answers were funny and sincere by turns.
"More glitter," Tommy said.
"Less glitter," Damien said immediately.
"Bravery," Courtney said, leaning into Shayne's side.
"Patience," Amanda added.
"Better boundaries," Angela said, then looked directly at you with a pointed smile.
You groaned. "Why did that feel targeted?"
"Because it was delivered with love."
When it was your turn, you looked around at the faces watching you. A month ago, you might have said something polished. Something about community or visibility or the importance of showing up for one another. All of that was true, but tonight you wanted to be honest in a different way.
"I think I am taking possibility," you said. "The reminder that people can surprise you. That joy can exist even when you are still figuring things out. And that maybe letting yourself be cared for is not the same as being weak."
The garden went quiet in the softest way.
Courtney smiled at you like they understood exactly what it had taken to say that.
A little later, when the group split into smaller conversations, Spencer appeared beside you with two drinks.
"I brought you one before you could forget you are a person with basic needs," he said.
You accepted it. "That is a very specific accusation."
"It is based on evidence."
You took a sip and tried not to smile too much. "Thank you."
Spencer's expression shifted, still warm but suddenly nervous. He glanced toward the quieter corner of the garden.
"Can we talk for a minute?"
Your heart gave one quick, startled kick. "Yeah. Of course."
You followed him away from the group, past the flowers and under a stretch of string lights that made everything look softer. Spencer put his drink down on a small table and ran a hand through his hair.
"I have been trying to figure out how to say this all month," he began.
You went still.
"And I know that is a dramatic sentence," he added quickly. "So, for the record, nobody is dying, and I did not break anything important."
A laugh slipped out of you, easing some of the nerves between you. "Good to know."
He smiled, then took a breath. "I like you."
The words were simple. Almost too simple for how loudly they landed.
"Oh," you said, because apparently that was the only word your brain had left.
"Yeah," Spencer said. "Oh."
You stared at him, and he rushed on.
"I like you in a way that has become increasingly inconvenient to keep pretending is just friendly admiration. I like the way you listen to people, but not because I think that is your job. I like how you notice everything. I like that you make jokes when things get too serious, but you never use humor to make people feel small. I like that you care loudly, even when you think you are being subtle."
Your chest tightened, but not with the old ache. This was something warmer. Scarier too, but in a way that felt alive.
"Spencer," you said softly.
"I know you are used to being the person people lean on," he continued. "And I know that can make it hard to believe someone might look at you and not just see support. But I don’t see you like that. I see you. And I would really like the chance to choose you, if that is something you might want too."
For a moment, all you could hear was the faint music from the patio and the distant laughter of your friends.
You thought about the rooftop with Courtney. The break room with Shayne. The balcony. The compliments you had tried to dodge and the care you had almost missed because you weren’t used to looking for it.
You thought about your dad and the words you never got to say. You thought about the younger version of yourself who learned early that love could vanish without warning, so maybe it was safer to give it than to need it.
Then you looked at Spencer, standing there with hope and fear written all over his face, and realized you no longer wanted to hide behind being useful.
"I'm scared," you admitted.
Spencer nodded. "That makes sense."
"I am good at caring about people. I’m not as good at letting people care about me."
"Then we can start there," he said. "Small steps. No grand performance. No pressure to become someone different. Just... you letting me show up, and me doing my best not to be weird about it."
You raised an eyebrow.
"Okay," he corrected. "Me doing my best to be a normal amount of weird about it."
You laughed, and the sound came out brighter than you expected.
Across the garden, Courtney caught your eye. She was very clearly pretending not to watch. Shayne, standing beside them, gave you the least subtle thumbs-up you had ever seen.
"They are terrible," you said.
Spencer glanced over his shoulder and winced. "Unbelievably terrible."
"Our friends are not subtle."
"No, but they are consistent."
You looked back at him. The fear was still there, but it had changed shape. It no longer felt like a wall. It felt like a doorway.
"I would like that," you said. "The small steps. The possibility. You."
Spencer's smile unfolded slowly, like he was trying not to believe it too fast. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He held out his hand, giving you every chance to decide. You slipped your fingers into his. It was simple. Warm. Enough to make your eyes sting.
The party carried on around you, all string lights and low music and your friends laughing too loudly at something Tommy had said. Nothing about your life changed all at once. You were still the person who listened. Still the friend people trusted. Still part of the bright, ridiculous, beautiful village you had helped build.
But maybe that had never meant you had to stand outside of love.
Maybe chosen family was not a consolation prize. Maybe it was the foundation. Maybe being loved by a whole room didn’t mean you couldn’t also be chosen by one person inside it.
Spencer squeezed your hand once, gentle and sure.
For the first time all month, the feeling in your chest didn’t feel like loneliness dressed up as gratitude. It felt open. Nervous. Joyful.
Exes (kinda) to lovers, one-sided enemies to lovers, hopeful ending
Part 1
TW: mentions of vomiting, description of physical injury (glass in hand), feelings realization, reader is bitter (for good reason), blood, mention of possible cheating and bad relationship dynamics (when talking about previous events), lots of crying, second chances
And I can go anywhere I want
Anywhere I want, just not home
And you can aim for my heart, go for blood
But you would still miss me in your bones
My tears ricochet - taylor swift
You sat in the car, the Smosh building staring back at you. You wanted to puke. One video, then you could go back to ignoring him forever. You remembered how he had cried that day at his apartment. Good, he had to deal with the consequences of his fucking actions. Be the bigger person. This is for the good of your career. Smosh could make a game go from niche to mainstream in an instant, and that was exactly what you needed. You took a deep breath, opened the car door, and stepped onto the asphalt.
When you walked inside, you were greeted with faces that seemed way too cheerful for 8 AM on a Wednesday. A tall woman waved you over with a tired smile and pulled you into a hug. When she let go, she said, “I’m Amanda, I’m doing the video with you and Spence today. He’s told us all about you.”
You played off your awkwardness with a faint laugh. “Only bad things I hope.”
“Exactly the opposite.”
You rolled your eyes. “He always had a flair for the dramatic, I wouldn’t get your hopes up too much.”
She led you to the set, where everyone was getting set up. You decided you liked her, she was funny but grounded. Maybe today wouldn’t be as bad as you’d thought. You waved to Alex as you passed by him. He seemed nice too. No reason to be mean, they weren’t the ones who had crushed your soul in an instant ten years ago. And the more rapport you could build between your company and theirs, the better. Easy.
Alex slid a cold brew towards you quickly once you were settled. “Drink it fast, usually we aren’t even allowed to have drinks on set, but I figured you could use a pick-me-up.”
“Thanks!”
“And hey, Spencer told me what happened.” You froze in horror. You should’ve known he would tell someone, it wasn’t exactly a secret. “Don’t be afraid to put him in his place today if he acts weird. He means well, but he can be…”
“Over the top? Sappy? Generally a freak?” Amanda supplied. “I don’t know what happened but it’s definitely his fault.”
“Just let us know if you need a breather.”
You sighed. “Thanks guys. I think I just need to get used to him again.”
Amanda squeezed your shoulder. “Alex and I will be here to support you the whole time. It’s not my place to pry, but we can debrief later if you want me to kick his ass.”
“No worries.”
She watched as your shoulders tensed as Spencer entered the room and squeezed it again, prompting you to relax. You gave her a soft smile.
“Hey guys, you ready?”
“Yes! Y/N was telling me all about her game and it sounds so awesome! I’m really excited.”
“I just hope none of the code I’ve been working on for the past three years bugs.”
Spencer smiled nervously at you, avoiding your eyes. “I’m sure it’ll be just fine.” He did the intro, then started to play, laughing as you helped him navigate the Labyrinth, Amanda catching the little things that he missed in the chaos. Neither of them caught onto the fact that they were supposed to be following the gold thread that trailed on the floor, stumbling into the various traps that you had set up. Spencer died more than once, and you simply shrugged. “Maybe you should’ve been listening better.”
“Oh my god, you say that every time and you know I never do.”
“You would think since your prefrontal cortex developed in the past decade you would.”
“Ugh. You’re right, I’m wrong, I’m sorry.” His voice dripped in sarcasm, using a phrase that you and your friends would tease each other with in school.
You laughed loudly, flipping him off, and then caught yourself, drawing back into your shell, Amanda taking the place of your boisterousness. You had gotten too close again, too close to what you used to be. This was more than just the two of you playing GTA in your dorm room, and it could never be that again. He had made sure of it. You could tell he noticed, but that wasn’t your problem anymore.
After shooting, you found yourself tucked in the back corner of the office, watching people scramble by while curled up on the couch. You were halfway reading emails, lost in your little bubble, so you startled when someone perched on the armrest next to you.
“Boo.”
“Geez, Spencer, you know you can’t do shit like that.”
“Still jumpy?”
“Not used to ghosts coming back to haunt me in person.” You glared at him, and his mischievous look faltered.
“I’m so sorry Y/N, I wish I could’ve been better, less scared.”
“I would’ve followed you, you know. Anywhere.”
“That was what I was scared of. I didn’t want to fail you.”
You scoffed. “And here we are.” Angry tears started to fall down your face.
“I know, I-”
“You don’t know Spencer, and that’s exactly the problem.” You stood up. “I’m going to meet with Ian then go home. I have things to do.”
“Be safe.”
“Don’t tell me what to fucking do.” You spat out, walking away. Amanda watched as you walked away from him, practically folded in on yourself, and Spencer’s heartbroken expression. He got up, dragging his feet over to her.
“What did you do?”
“It’s a long story.”
“I’ve got time.”
—-----------
You were curled up on the couch, poking at your Chinese takeout. It was slowly growing cold, but you weren’t hungry. You thought about the look on Spencer’s face when you had left. He had seemed genuinely sorry. But you couldn’t let him in again. He had destroyed the whole life you had fucking built together in two days. It couldn’t be that easy for him to waltz right back in your heart, could it?
And yet, ten years hadn’t been enough to let him go. The words were bitter on your tongue as you spoke them aloud. “I’m still in love with him, aren’t I?” The thought made you dry heave. How could you still love someone who had torn you apart so easily? You felt like you were suffocating on your own air. You reached for the water on your coffee table, but the condensation made it slip out of your hands. It shattered on the floor, the noise echoing in your ears.
Okay, okay, just clean up the glass. Find something to focus on. You knelt down on the hardwood, water soaking into your sweatpants. In your panic to find something, anything, to mop it up, you slipped, catching yourself on your hand. You heard the crunch before the pain registered. A sob wracked your body as you looked at your glass-filled palm. Of course, because when could you ever do anything right? Tears fell onto your hand, the salt burning the wounds. You steeled yourself and marched to your bathroom, avoiding looking at yourself in the mirror. You knew you looked terrible, you didn’t need to see it reflected back at you. Pulling out the tweezers out of your makeup bag, you started shakily pulling out the pieces. Teardrops fell from your eyes, obscuring your vision. You tried to take a deep breath, but your body refused to cooperate. How the hell were you supposed to do this if you couldn’t fucking see? Or if you couldn’t fucking breathe? Who could you even call? Ella was out of town, Amanda had a baby for god’s sake, and there was no way you would let a coworker see you like this. Your brain had an intrusive, irrepressible thought. Spencer.
No. Absolutely not.
He took care of you for a week when you had food poisoning. He let you sleep in his bed while drunk. He had a first aid kit for his car, his apartment, and in his backpack. And he said he’d do anything for you. Wasn’t that enough?
No way.
What if you needed to go to the ER?
You could drive yourself.
Could you? You looked at yourself in the mirror for the first time that night. A trapped animal stared back at you. Your once gray hoodie sleeve was now a mottled red and the damp patches were clinging uncomfortably to your arm. Your dominant hand was still filled with glass, which sent twinges of pain up through your fingertips.
Fuck. You needed him, didn't you.
You swallowed your pride and dialed his number, hoping he’d pick up for the first time in years.
You flinched back a little when his voice abruptly came through the phone. “Is this another drunk dial?”
Your voice came out small. “No, it’s me.” Your heart jumped into your throat. “I just needed help with something but uh-, it’s not urgent so, I’ll see if someone else can.”
“If you called of your own free will, something is wrong.” His tone shifted into something you hadn’t heard in a long time.
“You have a first aid kit, right?”
“What happened? Are you hurt?”
“A little. Perhaps.”
“How much is a little?”
“I have glass in my entire hand and there’s a lot of blood.”
“You have glass in your- geez, why didn’t you call sooner?” You heard him starting his car. “What if you need stitches?”
“It’s not that big of a deal.”
“I’m on my way. Send me your address. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Or would do. Don’t be stupid. Don’t go anywhere.”
His panic made you giggle a little. “I won’t, promise.” He showed up at your door five minutes later, panting, first aid kit in hand. He flung the door open, coming face to face with you waiting.
“Hi.” You took in his flushed appearance.
“Hi.” He grabbed your wrist and guided you to the couch, plopping you down.
“Be careful of the glass. And the water too.” He looked down at the wet patch a few feet away, shards of glass shimmering mockingly in the lamp light.
He sat down next to you, avoiding the spill with ease. He opened his first aid kit and started gently pulling out the fractured pieces. “What happened?”
“I slipped while cleaning it up.”
“No, before that.” You winced as he wiggled out a bigger piece. He rubbed a calming thumb on the inside of your wrist. “Something happened, I can sense it.”
“Panic attack.”
“Oh honey-“ he caught himself. “Sorry, habit.”
You let it settle in your chest. “It’s okay. I- I get it. I’m sorry for being so mad earlier.”
His voice was soft.. “You don’t need to apologize, I understand. I wouldn’t forgive me either.”
“I think you’re letting me get away with too much.”
“I would never.” He smiled at you, and you were reminded of how much his gaze made your heart flutter. He finished removing the glass and started analyzing the cuts. “I think you should be okay without going to the doctor, but it’s definitely going to hurt for a few days.” He started to bandage it up, careful to put just enough pressure to stop the bleeding. You couldn’t help but stare at him as you watched his tongue stick out in concentration. You studied the rest of him, looking at the laugh lines that had formed around his eyes and his hair that had grown out into an unruly mop of curls. He was every bit as gorgeous as he had been a decade ago. He looked up at you through his glasses. “What is it?”
“Just- you’re all grown up now, and I didn’t get to see it.” His shoulders started to shake with silent sobs as he tied the final knot in your bandage, looking at the resigned look on your face.
“I-“ his voice cracked. “I regret it every single fucking day. I shouldn’t have cheated on you, I shouldn’t have blown up at you about leaving, god, I thought of you the whole time but my stupid pride stopped me from doing anything about it.”
“You didn’t cheat on me Spence. We weren’t even dating.”
“That’s no excuse, we were roommates, we were practically sewn together at the hip! I was hopelessly in love with you and tried to fuck someone else to get over it!” He lowered his voice when he felt you flinch. “You have every right to hate me.”
“I don’t hate you Spence.”
He clutched your hoodie tighter. “That’s the worst part. Knowing I don’t deserve your forgiveness but knowing you probably will anyway.”
“I didn’t say I forgive you yet. But-” You looked down at your hand, running your thumb over where the bandages had been tied with all the care in the world. “I think it would be unfair to myself to try not to reconcile some of this. We have too much history for that.” You felt the door to your heart open a crack.
You heard his breath hitch as he processed what you said. After what felt like hours, he finally spoke, voice coming out meek. “Really?” He let himself fall forward into your chest, openly crying now. “You really mean that?”
You sighed and leaned into him. Even if you wanted to stay away, you’d never be able to.
“I do.”
A/N: Mini-series checkkkkk. Thinking there will be 2/3 more parts but I'm not quite sure yet. Also if you requested something I pinky promise I'm not ignoring it I've just been hyperfixated on Subnautica 2 playthroughs. Genuinely I might have a problem lol.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Okay so hear my out what if its Damien x Y/N (Who usually works behind the camera) but its a charity stream and its karaoke and Y/N breaks into full theater kid songs and I'm thinking maybe Our Lady of the Underground from Hadestown and is like fully into it and everything and even dressed up for it and no one knew they could really sing until they started to sing that song?
Flowers In Her Hair
Damien Haas x f!crew reader, platonic best friend/matchmaker Angela Giarratana x f!reader
A karaoke stream turns into something more.
TW: None!! Enjoy pookies <3
To say you were nervous was the understatement of the century. How had she convinced you to do this? More importantly, how had she managed to keep it a secret from everyone else? Angela grinned behind you, makeup lights distorting her reflection a little as she pinned flowers into your hair. “He’s gonna love this.”
“Oh my god shut up.”
It was your fault really. She had caught you singing RENT to yourself as you replaced camera batteries and fiddled with lights before a shoot and immediately decided you were going to sing on the annual karaoke stream. You had tried to play it off, claiming it was just your phone, but she had (rightfully) called your bluff.
She had given you an out, of course, she wasn’t cruel. But she had also given you enough confidence to agree to do it, even if it was also going to be in front of the guy you’d had a crush on for years. She knew that too, and had taken her time both hyping you up and endlessly teasing you about it.
“He’s legitimately so Hades coded. I saw you drool a little bit when he rolled up his sleeves the other day. It’s perfect for the two of you.”
You glared at her where her teasing smile flickered behind you in the mirror. “I told you Ange, he doesn’t like me and it’s as simple as that.”
“I call bullshit.”
“I’d put money on it.”
“$20 says he confesses after this.”
“Deal.”
She finished pinning part of your hair up, letting the rest gather in unruly waves down your back. Leaning her head on your shoulder, she declared, “Miss Persephone, you are the most beautiful queen of the night I’ve ever seen.”
“Shhh you’ll spoil the surprise.” You fixed the lace of your boot before standing up. “I’m gonna go hide in the corner now. See you soon! You better be ready.”
“Don’t worry, I will.”
You snuck into the far back corner to sit and wait. Cameras were covered today so all you needed to do was sit and watch. You fiddled with your puffed sleeve as people started to file in. Bailey came up to you, smiling gently. “You look beautiful! Did Angela do your makeup?”
You smiled back, crinkling the small flowers that dotted the corners of your eyes. “She did. It’s amazing how she can focus when she really wants to.”
“It really is.” She clocked the nervous look on your face and squeezed your hand. “You’re gonna do a great job up there. She’ll be there the whole time.”
“I know, I just need to breathe I think.”
“Good call, generally people need to do that.”
—------
“Thank you everyone for donating so much! Since we’ve hit one of our goals, we are going to have a special performance coming up!” Trevor yelled as everyone cheered. Angela had slipped away to change into her overalls a few minutes ago, and you had started to tap your feet with anxiety. You saw her creep back through the stage doors as the rowdiness continued, giving you a quick thumbs-up.
She grabbed the microphone from Trevor’s hand, quieting the crowd. “Please welcome, our Lady of the Underground, Persephone!” Everyone started to clap, jaws dropping as you made your way front and center. The sequins on your dress glittered under the set lights as you started to twirl, singing. Angela was a great backup singer, but also succeeded in calming your nerves as she took your hand to dance. You couldn’t help but laugh, sometimes missing the words as she spun you around. When the song ended, the two of you took a huge bow, and Angela almost tripped, making the two of you laugh even louder. People rushed over and started to hug you as the stream ended, and you felt lighter than a cloud, surrounded by those you loved.
Meanwhile, Damien was frozen in place, stuck to the couch, hyperfocused on the ethereal girl spinning around in front of him. She had always been magnetic to him, pulling him away from his work and to her side during long nights at the office. Even on her “worst” days, she was glorious to him, with big hoodies bunched up around her elbows as she fixed something and huge cups of coffee threatening to spill on her desk as she animatedly bickered with Angela. He just liked to see her smile, opting to leave dad jokes on her computer screen instead of kissing her breathless in the middle of the office like he did in his wildest fantasies.
But now, she looked really, truly, free. Her voice was beautiful, yes, but she was so happy and in her element up there, lights shining down on her, that he couldn’t look away. To look away would be a crime against the universe. He hoped that maybe he could see her like that all the time, spinning around in one of his t-shirts in his kitchen, cats dodging her dancing feet. He longed to pull her close, to never let her go. He needed it more than he had ever needed anything else.
“She feels the same, you know.” Angela’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts.
“What?”
“She looks at you the same way you look at her.”
He went to protest, but then he caught her eye and watched her face morph into something softer, more reverent, like she was looking at the most precious thing in the world. “Oh.” He breathed it more than he said it.
People started to filter out of the room, including Angela, who pulled her into a hug and then pushed her gently towards the couch. Damien stood up to meet her, brushing her hair out of her eyes softly.
“You were amazing up there.”
“Thanks.” She blushed, but continued to meet his eyes. “I’m glad you liked it.”
“Angela told me something funny.”
She giggled, “Doesn’t she always?”
“She said that we look at each other the same way.” She froze, eyes widening. His hand came up to cup her cheek. “Please tell me she’s right.”
She searched his deep brown eyes for any hesitation, any semblance of something that may tell her that this was all a cruel joke played by fate, but she found none. Taking a deep breath, she said, “She’s right.”
“Can I kiss you?”
“Please do.”
The kiss felt like coming home, like something in the universe that had been out of balance had shifted back into place softly.
And somewhere across the office, Angela could sense that the universe had put 20 extra dollars in her pocket.
A/N: I love a best friend knows bitches are oblivious trope and helps but also gets what they're due ($20). This was legit so cute, they're in love your honor!!!! Like love love fr.
Do you write smut?? I would love if you could write a reader x courtney fic where reader is the youngest of the cast and has never been with a girl before and Courtney guides them through their first time. Can be a threesome with Shayne too if you want I don’t mind.
Thankyou so much!!!
Hey Anon! I appreciate the ask. I just wrote my first smut chapter for like the first time ever, and I'm not sure how thrilled I am when it comes to my writing style and smut fics. Like don't get me wrong I love reading them when I feel so inclined but writing them is just kinda weird to me still if that makes sense. However, I figured I'd answer your request so that anyone in the community who does write smut can use this prompt! I think it could be a fun fic, I just don't think I'm the right person to write it (though if I get better maybe I'll revisit it.)
Thank you for the request though! I really appreciate it. Anyone can feel free to write from this prompt if they'd like :) - T 💜
